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DAYS IN THE OPEN 




Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/daysinopenOOcran 




WHEN THE SPRING FRET COMES O ER YOU 






Copyright, 1914, by 
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 




New York : 158 Fifth Avenue 
Chicago: 125 N. Wabash Ave. 
Toronto : 25 Richmond St., W. 
London : 21 Paternoster Square 
Edinburgh : 100 Princes Street 



SEP 21 1914 



1 Gl. A :i S 4 3 8 






i 

c 







9^i 



Do you know the blackened timber — 
do you know that racing stream 
With the raw, right-angled log- 
jam at the end; 
And the bar of sun-warmed shingle 
where a man may bask and 
dream 
To the click of shod canoe-poles 
round the bend? 
It is there that we are going with 
our rods and reels and traces, 
To a silent smoky Indian that we 
know — 
To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, 
with the starlight on our faces, 
For the Red Gods call us out and 
we must go! 
— Rudyard Kipling, The Feet 
of the Young Men. 




CONTENTS 

I. The Boy and the Brook 
II. The Two Boys 

III. The Town-Meeting at Blue 

Pool 

IV. In the North Woods . 
V. Over the Simplon Pass 

VI. On Sea and Shore 

VII. Among the Northern Pines 

VIII. .In the Land of Nod 

IX. On Both Coasts . 

X. On Moosehead Lake 



Rock 



13 

25 

35 
49 
65 
75 
87 
99 
in 

125 



8 CONTENTS 

XL Among the Cut-Throats of Lake 

Chelan . . . . . 139 

XII. Camping on the Nepigon . -151 

XIII. In a House-Boat on the Kootenay 167 

XIV. Skegemog Point .... 183 

XV. In the Algoma Woods — and Be- 
fore ..... 199 
XVI. In the Valley of the Dwyfor . 213 
XVII. Boy Life in the Open . . 225 
XVIII. The Bully of the Upper Oswe- 

GATCHIE ..... 239 

XIX. Olla Podrida .... 255 





ILLUSTRATIONS 



FACING 
PAGE 



" When the spring fret comes o'er you " . . Titles 

The brook was ten miles of silvery laughter . 14 

Dixon's Mill ! How the nerves tingle at the 

writing of those two words .... 104 

The waters of the lake dimple and flash in the 

sunlight 126 

Here one could catch mountain trout with the 

fly 146 

We are tied up to a sandy beach . . .172 

Have you forgotten your boyhood ? . . . 229 . 

It was here that the Bully was born . . . 240 

9 



The sun was setting and vespers 

done, the monks came trooping 

out, one by one, 
And down they went through the 

garden trim in cassock and cowl 

to the river's brim, 
Every brother his rod he took, every 

rod had a line and hook, 
Every hook had a bait so fine, and 

thus they sang in the even shine, 
"Oh! to-morrow will be Friday, so 

we fish the stream to-day! 
Oh! to-morrow will be Friday, so we 

fish the stream to-day!" 
— Benedict, To-morrow Will 
Be Friday. 



THE BOY 

AND 

THE BROOK 







,-:&" 



•ft 



S/?*' ■* 




THE BOY AND THE BROOK 




A, may I go fishing? " 

That the boy should use the 
homely "Ma," rather than 
" Mamma," makes it clear that he 
is not of our generation, although 
his generous crop of freckles 
looks familiar, and his blue jumper, coming 
down to the knees, and that battered straw hat, 
are sometimes duplicated in our own day. It 
is fifty years across which we look, even if he does 
stand out so clearly. The question is one that he 
asks daily, if not oftener, from the time when the 
pussy-willows begin to swell in the spring-time, to 
the season for comforters and woollen mittens in 
the late fall. 

Hark ! Do you hear the voice that is calling the 
boy? It comes distinctly across the long stretch 
of years, and is as sweet and compelling now as 

13 



14 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

when it pulled at the heart of the lad on that long- 
ago summer day. It is the voice of the brook. It 
gurgles and laughs and pleads. It says, " Ha ! ha ! 
ha ! Isn't this a beautiful world, and this the finest 
day ever? Come on, little boy, and play in my 
ripples. I've some nice peppermint growing on my 
banks, and all sorts of pretty pebbles that I have 
washed for you. Look sharp, now ! Do you see 
that trout lying at the head of the riffle ? Do you 
know that I counted thirty-seven as big as he is 
between the bridge and the Deer Pond? Come 
and catch 'em ! " 

That brook was a part, and a large one, of the 
first permanent impressions made upon the boy's 
mind. It had its rise in a little pond, concerning 
which there was the usual dark legend that it had 
no bottom. Just what held up the water was a 
mystery, but the boy never doubted the legend. 
It was fed by numerous springs. Vigorous and 
noisy from the moment when it broke forth from 
its source, the brook was ten miles of silvery 
laughter. 

" If you'll not go out of sight of the house you 
may go for an hour," says the mother, for she too 
has ears to hear the call of the brook and can 
understand its charm for her lad. " Just up in the 
pasture-lot above the bridge," calls back the boy, 
and starts off with his pole and a supply of angle- 
worms wrapped up in paper. Take special no- 
tice of that pole, for it is the joy of the boy's heart. 



THE BOY AND THE BROOK 15 

He had thought that a cedar sapling, peeled and 
thoroughly dried, made an ideal outfit, until a 
friend gave him a straight cane-pole painted a bril- 
liant blue. In after years he owned not a few 
jointed rods, made by hand of split bamboo; but 
the tide of joy and pride has never risen higher in 
his heart than on the day when he became the pos- 
sessor of the blue cane-pole. 

There is a place in the pasture-lot where the 
brook stretches itself out in a long reach of still 
water. Above and below are rippling shallows. 
Wary as is his approach, the boy sees the shy trout 
darting from the riffles into the darker water. 
Patiently he dangles his baited hook by the side of 
a sunken log, and trails it temptingly back and 
forth before the coverts where the cunning fish lie 
hidden, but all in vain. They have learned by ex- 
perience that the presence of a blue jumper and a 
blue pole spells out danger for them, and refuse to 
take any risks. Is this, like so many other fishing 
trips, to end in failure ? Watch the boy ! Laying 
the blue pole carefully on the ground, he rolls his 
sleeves to his shoulders and, lying on his stomach 
on the bank of the brook, thrusts one hand very 
gently into the water. With the utmost caution he 
feels here and there under the overhanging sods 
until at last his fingers touch something that sends 
an electric thrill tingling through the length of his 
little body. He feels a trout, and strangely 
enough it does not stir. The little fingers gently 



16 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

tickle the belly of the trout as they work their way 
towards its head, and when they have encircled the 
body at the gills they suddenly contract and the fish 
is thrown far back upon the grass. This perform- 
ance is repeated three or four times, and then the 
trophies are gathered up in the jumper and with 
blue pole over his shoulder the boy goes proudly 
homeward. 

Many years after the boy had grown to manhood 
he was riding with a friend on their way to a 
famous trout preserve. Naturally, the conversa- 
tion turned to fishing experiences, and he told the 
story of the brook and of catching trout with his 
hands. The friend looked a whole volume of in- 
credulity and exclaimed, " Well, of all the fish-lies 
I ever heard that takes the cake." When the club- 
house was reached the keeper, a canny Scotchman, 
was interviewed. " Andrew, did you ever hear of 
catching trout with the hands?" "Is it guddlin' 
you mean? Mony a time. I've caught plenty of 
'em in the burns when a boy." The skeptic was 
silenced if not convinced. Since that time a 
heated discussion of this mooted question has ap- 
peared in a prominent sporting journal, and able 
arguments have been adduced to prove the impos- 
sibility of any such feat as that ascribed to the boy. 
But he knows, and the brook knows, and the blue 
pole knows; and those may doubt who will. 

" May I go fishin' down in the woods?" The 
question came from an anxious heart, and the boy 



THE BOY AND THE BROOK 17 

proceeded to support his request with reasons. 
" The biggest trout are down there. Edwin 
Crumb caught one that weighed 'most a pound 
down there last week. There are no big ones in 
the pasture-lot. I'll be careful, and I'm 'most 
seven now, you know." It was a momentous 
question. For two miles after leaving the bridge 
the brook ran through the woods, and the mother 
fancied all manner of possible and impossible dan- 
gers to her boy lurking among those trees. But 
then, the lad must be allowed to go out of her sight 
some time, and the day was full of sunshine. 

" If you'll be very careful, and not go far, and be 
back early, you may go." " Whoop ! " and a 
small boy has disappeared from view before the 
permission is fairly spoken. No blue pole this 
time. The brush and alders are too thick and the 
pole too long. It is only a small birch limb, six 
feet long, possibly, that he pulls out from under 
the barn as he hurries to get out of hearing before 
the mother repents her rashness. 

What a day that was ! He has not gone far 
before, alongside the alders in the swift water, 
almost at his feet, he captures a larger trout than 
any ever granted him by the pasture-lot. He cuts 
a stringer from the over-hanging alders, and with 
fish in one hand and pole in the other proceeds on 
his adventurous way. For some time he steals 
along the gravelly bed of the brook, eagerly expec- 
tant but without getting even a bite. Certainly 



18 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

this is not very exciting, and his gaze begins to 
wander to the woods. Is that crinkle-root? In- 
vestigation yields a plentiful supply of the peppery 
plant and also three or four ground-nuts. Then 
the brook pulls him back to itself and a few rods 
farther on he comes to a log across the stream and 
partly under water. His heart gives a thump, for 
this must be the place where Edwin Crumb caught 
his big trout. It exactly fits the oft-repeated de- 
scription. He leaves the bed of the brook, fetches 
a circuit through the brush and comes out just 
where he can drop his hook by the upper side of 
the log in the still water. The answer to his invi- 
tation is prompt, but the captive is not as large as 
was anticipated. Again and yet again he returns 
his lure only to meet a cordial reception, until five 
fair-sized trout have been added to the alder 
stringer; then activities cease. 

We cannot follow him all through his eventful 
pilgrimage, but there is one experience that must 
not go unrecorded. In a tangle of brush formed 
by a tree-top which has fallen into a deep place in 
the stream he spies an open space, possibly eighteen 
inches in diameter, where the water is covered with 
scum and foam. Just the place for a big trout, but 
there is no way of getting even his short pole 
through the brush. The line is untied, and he goes 
crawling out on a limb that hangs over the brook, 
and sits, at last, astride it and directly above the 
enticing spot. A fresh and exceedingly fat angle- 



THE BOY AND THE BROOK 19 

worm is looped upon the hook and the wriggling 
mass is cautiously dropped into the middle of the 
scum. It has no sooner touched the water than 
there is a sharp tug and a mighty swirl, but only 
the hook and the remainders of the worm come 
back in answer to his pull. Another bait, and 
again the hook is lowered into the pool. No, the 
old fellow was not pricked the first time, for here 
he is again and this time firmly hooked. To bal- 
ance the body on the limb when both hands are 
employed in tugging on the line, is no easy task, but 
at last the trout is in his hands and hugged to his 
breast. With the fingers of one hand through his 
gills and the thumb among the sharp teeth of the 
fish's mouth, the slow journey is made back to the 
shore. Glory enough for one day ! The prize 
measures about twelve inches and is thick through. 
Edwin Crumb's trout is beaten with room to spare. 
But now it dawns upon the boy that he has been 
gone a long time, and if he hopes to be permitted to 
repeat this trip he must hurry home. He also be- 
comes acutely conscious of an awful vacuum in the 
region of his stomach which even crinkle-root and 
ground-nuts will not fill. He reasons with himself 
that he can reach home more quickly by striking 
through the woods to the road than by retracing 
his way along the brook. He is very sure that he 
knows the way, but his certitude evaporates 
steadily as he plunges his way through the woods. 
Just when he admits to himself that he has no* 



20 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

idea in which direction the road lies, he emerges 
into a clearing and sees before him a group of farm 
buildings. They are certainly unfamiliar; but 
some one must live here and he can get directions 
as to his shortest way home. Who is that in the 
doorway? It cannot be Mrs. Woodman whose 
home is only a short half-mile from his own? But 
it is, and, to make his joy complete, this is baking 
day and the good woman hands him out an apple 
turnover. All turnovers are good,' but that one 
was far and away the best ever baked. A hungry 
boy and an apple turnover form a great combina- 
tion. 

It would not do to say that the boy and the brook 
were inseparable companions, for there were long 
months when the Frost King had everything his 
own way and the merry stream found it hard work 
to maintain its appearance even on the shallow rif- 
fles. Then there were swift flights down the hill- 
sides for the boy, and long journeys up again drag- 
ging his sled. Often in the long winter nights he 
heard the half-smothered gurgle of the near-by 
brook, and wondered where the trout lived when 
the thermometer was below zero. 

Even in the summer days the two friends could 
not be together all the time. A mile or so over the 
hill was the brown school-house to which the boy 
must make his pilgrimages five days each week for 
three months at a time, and where he learned, 
helped by the pictures, that three cherries and two 



THE BOY AND THE BROOK 21 

cherries make five cherries, and wrestled more or 
less successfully with the multiplication table. 
The old meadow just above the orchard was a 
famous place for strawberries, and many hours the 
boy spent in gathering the luscious fruit while the 
bobolinks, perched on swaying mullein stalks or 
the old rail-fence, engaged in a vocal contest of 
riotous and maudlin song. Then a robin had built 
its nest on one of the big beams under the meeting- 
house shed on the top of the hill, and the eggs must 
needs be watched and the young birds looked after. 
Sometimes the children strayed into the burial 
ground adjoining the church and pushed aside the 
myrtle to read on the little head-stone the name of 
a child that had died long, long ago. 

If anything could make the boy forget the brook 
it was his dog. Very likely the dog had a pedi- 
gree, but it had not been recorded, and he was as 
dear to the heart of the child as if his ancestors had 
all been decorated with blue ribbons. Pedro and 
the lad knew where the woodchucks lived on the 
side of the hill above the pond, and it was a red- 
letter day when one of them was cut off from his 
hole by the two hunters and Pedro vanquished him 
in a pitched battle. 

The brook has run through the years and its 
laughter sounds now in the ears of the writer. 
Somehow he hopes that the River of Life will be 
like the brook, larger grown. And ever as its 
murmur is heard a vision of the mother is seen. 



22 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

The two grew into the boy's heart together. In 
the last days when that mother had grown weary 
and was waiting for rest, the son sat by her bed- 
side and they talked together of the long past days, 
of the home under the hill, of friends gone on into 
the silence, and of the brook with its sun-painted 
trout. She has been sleeping for many years on 
the banks of the Susquehanna, lulled by the cease- 
less flow of the noble river with whose waters the 
waters of the brook are mingled. 



THE TWO 
BOYS 







Here is a story of something that 
was shown me when I was a little 
boy. Every time I think of this 
story it seems to me more and more 
charming. For it is with some 
stories as it is with many people — 
they become better as they grow 
older. . . . And that something 
which was told me when I was a 
child, you shall hear too, and learn 
that whatever an old man does, is 
generally right. — Hans Christian 
Andersen, The Wife Perfect. 




II 



THE TWO BOYS 




E may safely interpret a lowery day 
in haying time as a providential 
hint to go fishing. It did not re- 
quire a strong hint of this kind 
to move grandfather, especially 
when the boy was around; for he 
not only loved to fish but he loved the boy who 
loved to fish, and was always planning something 
for his pleasure. 

Why not stop for a moment just here to consider 
what sort of a grandfather a boy should have? 
Of course he must have white hair and a kindly 
face, but these are comparatively unimportant parts 
of his outfit. It is the disposition that counts. 
He must not have nerves. The peppery, irascible, 
impatient man, who growls and sputters on the 
least provocation, should never set up in business 
as a grandfather. In order to highest excellence 

25 



26 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

he should keep the boy-spirit through all the ex- 
periences of life. The man who has entirely 
ceased to be a boy is disqualified. 

This particular grandsire filled the bill com- 
pletely. He never scolded, and never even grew 
tired of answering questions. When the little lad 
had reached the sled age, the cunning hands of his 
grandfather built him one that could easily dis- 
tance all competitors. When skates had become 
an obsession, it was the same benefactor who in- 
vested his hard-earned money in the most wonder- 
ful pair that the boy had ever seen, and surrepti- 
tiously taught him to use them before the anxious 
mother knew anything about it. But the crowning 
day among all the many that these two spent to- 
gether was that upon which the older boy taught 
the younger how to use a gun. The gun was a 
family heirloom, and tradition said that it had 
done duty in the Revolutionary War. The old flint 
lock had been removed and a percussion lock sub- 
stituted; but the hammer refused to stay cocked. 
When it was fired, whatever might be the re- 
sult to the object fired at, no uncertainty could 
be felt about the consequences to the firer; he 
was kicked certainly, promptly, and vigorously. 

On an historic morning in the winter, when 
the grandfather was going into the woods to chop, 
he took the boy's breath away by saying, "If you 
want to go with me to-day and take along the old 
shotgun, you may, possibly, shoot a squirrel." 



THE TWO BOYS 27 

Will he go? If any boy reads these lines, let him 
answer. Gun over shoulder, and heart rilled with 
infinite happiness, the boy trudges along the road, 
through the fields, and into the woods on the hill- 
side, pouring forth a steady flow of talk. When 
the big beech, which the grandfather is turning 
into fire-wood, is reached, a council of war is held. 
Directions are given as to the proper way of hand- 
ling a gun, and especially this one. " You'll have 
to hold the hammer back with your thumb, and 
when you have taken good aim, let go." Over and 
over again it is impressed upon the boy that under 
no circumstances is he to point the muzzle of the 
gun toward him. 

While instructions are going on, a harsh call 
sounds from among the distant trees. The boy 
does not need to be told that it is the cry of the 
grey-squirrel, and with all the speed that caution 
will permit he hurries in the direction of the hidden 
challenger. Every now and then he stops to await 
a renewal of the cry, and then on again. Now 
the call is very near, almost directly overhead. 
Evidently it comes from somewhere high up in that 
great maple. For moments that seem hours he 
peers here and there among the leafless branches. 
At last the flirt of a grey tail catches his eye, and 
there, stretched along a limb near the top of the 
trees, lies the quarry. Up goes the long-barrelled 
gun, but the muzzle refuses to hold still. It de- 
scribes circles and rectangles and zigzags, but per- 



28 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

sistently avoids the squirrel. Possibly it is too 
heavy for the slight muscles. Certainly the boy's 
heart is beating a tattoo, and a severe attack of 
" squirrel fever " has him in its grip. Just as de- 
spair is completely overwhelming the lad, he sees a 
big log near by, and loses no time in getting behind 
it, with the gun resting upon it and pointing toward 
the tree-top. With this rest it is possible to keep 
the contraptious old gun still for a minute. Care- 
fully he pulls back the hammer, takes a long sight 
over the barrel, and lets go. Have the heavens 
fallen and has the world come to an end? The 
gun bellows, and the boy turns a back-somersault 
in the snow, vaguely fancying that the entire uni- 
verse has struck him. The squirrel is forgotten 
for a moment in the surprise caused by the back- 
action of the gun. But it is only for a moment, 
and then digging the snow out of his eyes, the boy 
peers anxiously up at the limb just occupied by the 
squirrel. It is empty. Has he missed him? Just 
when humiliation begins to creep into his heart he 
sees a grey heap on the snow, and sorrow turns to 

joy- 

With gun over his shoulder and the squirrel hid- 
den behind him, he takes the back trail, and soon 
rejoins the chopper. " I heard the gun go off," 
says the old boy. " What did you shoot at ? " " A 
grey squirrel," is the answer. " Missed him, 
eh? " This is the moment of supreme happiness, 
as the concealed game is brought to the front and 



THE TWO BOYS 29 

the boy cries, " Missed him, did I ? What do you 
think of that?" What amazement, simulated or 
real, appears on the older face ! His surprise even 
surpasses the boy's expectation. " Well ! Well ! 
If that isn't a big one, and you killed him all by 
yourself! I'll take his hide off when we get home 
and you shall have him for supper." 

It is more than probable that some dear people, 
if they have the patience to read thus far, will lay 
down the book in disgust, saying, " Cruel ! Cruel ! 
Boys should be taught never to take life unneces- 
sarily." The writer accepts their censure with all 
meekness, and assures them of his hearty sympa- 
thy. But he is writing of the boy in the open, the 
out-of-doors boy, the real boy, not of a becurled 
and anaemic male child, coddled and restrained and 
tutored until he is no more than a little manikin. 
And writing of the real boy as he has been, is, and 
evermore will be, it must be set down in all honesty 
that he loves the hunt. 

But we have wandered a long way from that 
lowery day when grandfather said, " Boy, I can't 
work in the hay-field today; what do you say to 
going over to the river fishing ? " Now the boy had 
spent innumerable hours on the creek that flowed 
past the old farm-house, and had sought acquaint- 
ance with the bull-heads and horndace and eels for 
a mile in either direction, but the river he had fished 
only in his dreams. He had seen huge pickerel 
and giant perch which neighbours had exhibited as 



30 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

spoils from this wonderful stream, and in night 
visions he had walked along its banks and pulled 
out fish of enormous size and brilliant colouring. 
Now his dreams were to come true. 

In the same valley with the river, and before it 
was reached, was the canal. Just below a lock, 
where the water looked to be infinitely deep to the 
boy, the grandfather stopped and said, " We will 
try it here for a while." Nothing happened except 
that after feeling a tug at his line the boy pulled 
it in minus a hook. " Probably a turtle," explains 
the elder : " Let's go on to the river." A quarter 
of a mile farther on and the shining river is 
reached, just where a dam had been many years 
before. Some of the logs remained, reaching out 
over the water, and upon these the two boys seated 
themselves and began to fish. Memory has failed 
to record all the incidents of that eventful day, but 
it has engraved the picture of the long string of 
fish which they carried home that night. The 
record is probably not any more accurate than some 
of which we read now-a-days, for it declares that 
this string was something over six feet long, and 
weighed at least a thousand pounds ! 

One experience of that day will not allow itself 
to be forgotten. The boy hooked a fish that put up 
an exceptionally vigorous fight, but was finally 
brought in. After it had been unhooked and was 
being exultantly inspected by the younger and 
exhibited for the admiration of the older boy, it 



THE TWO BOYS 31 

gave a sudden wriggle, slipped through the hands 
of its captor, and fell back into the river. Woe of 
woes! For the time, life was not worth living. 
The biggest fish he had ever caught had gotten 
away ! In spite of the most heroic efforts his chin 
began to quiver and then came a burst of tears. 
" Never mind," said the older boy, " you'll catch 
another just as good." 

That day and that particular event came back 
with startling distinctness more than thirty years 
later, and on the banks of the far-famed Nepigon. 
The boy had long since come to be a man, and was 
camped with two congenial friends at the lower 
end of " Pine Portage." There had been long 
days of ideal trout-fishing and nights filled with 
refreshing sleep. One day an old man — ap- 
parently near to the Psalmist's limit of years — with 
his son in the prime of life, came up the river with 
their Indian guides and stopped for a few hours to 
try the Pine Portage pool. While the younger 
man fished from the canoe, the father stood upon 
a rock that jutted out into the river and began 
casting. It was not long before he hooked a fish 
which gave every indication of being a big one. 
The old man fought him well. The son stopped in 
his casting to look on, and the campers came down 
to the shore to watch the battle. Out of the depths 
the gallant fish flung himself clear of the water, 
and then all saw that he was of unusual size. The 



m DAYS IN THE OPEN 

son hastened to the shore and offered to take the 
rod and finish the contest, but the old man refused. 
A half -hour passed, and then the tired fish began to 
show signs of yielding and the fisherman already 
saw himself the proud captor of a six-pound trout, 
when — it was all over. Was there a flaw in the 
line? Had the aged sportsman inadvertently 
dropped the tip of his rod until the fish had a 
straight-away pull upon the reel ? No matter what 
the cause, the line had parted under the last surge 
of the fish, and he was lost. For a moment the old 
face worked strangely, and then down went the 
white head, face in his hands, and we saw the shak- 
ing body as he sobbed out his disappointment. 
Then the son laid his hand upon the senior's 
shoulder and we heard him say, " Never mind, 
father, you'll catch another just as good." Ten 
and eighty are not far apart when we go fishing. 



THE 
TOWN-MEETING 

AT 

BLUE ROCK POOL 





^y«^ 



As for my chosen pursuit of 
angling, (which I follow with dili- 
gence when not interrupted by less 
important concerns), I rejoice with 
every true fisherman that it has a 
greeting of its own, and of a most 
honourable antiquity. There is no 
record of its origin. But it is quite 
certain that since the days of the 
Flood . . . two honest and good- 
natured anglers have never met each 
other by the way, without crying out, 
"What luck?" — Henry Van Dyke, 
Fisherman's Luck. 




Ill 



THE TOWN-MEETING AT 
POOL 



BLUE ROCK 




IDN'T know that fish held town- 
meetings ? That shows how your 
education has been neglected. A 
town-meeting is an assembly; fish 
assemble; therefore, fish hold 
town-meetings. Isn't that con- 
clusive? But the fact is one of experience as well 
as of logical deduction. It can be " mediated " by 
the faith of every disciple of the immortal Izaak. 
This is the unadorned and veracious account of 
one of these piscatorial gatherings, held on an 
August day in Caine River, New Brunswick, 
seventeen miles from the nearest house. They had 
been gathering for days. Prominent citizens were 
there from Big Rock, five miles down the river, and 
almost every inhabitant of the Forks, three miles up 
stream, had answered to roll-call. A large number 

35 



36 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

of youngsters who had lately taken up their abode 
in Blue Rock Brook seemed to think that this was 
some sort of circus, and had to be nipped into order 
by their more sedate seniors. 

The main business on hand was to provide for 
the " summer schools " which had won a deserved 
reputation for excellence long before the Uni- 
versity of Chicago opened its doors. It was cus- 
tomary, also, to elect a path-master at this time, 
that the highways might be looked after and kept 
free from grass. The Hon. S. Maximus Fontaine, 
political boss of Troutopolis, had things well in 
hand, and it was generally admitted that his slate 
would go through without a hitch. 

No wonder that the beauty-loving trout came 
from far and from near to this place of assembly. 
If the truth must be told a majority cared less 
about the election than they did for the climate. 
Search the country over and you could not find a 
more charming spot. Just where a great clump of 
white birches made a whispering place for the 
wind, Blue Rock Brook came gurgling down into 
the river. Its source was a great spring back 
among the hills, and all along its course other 
springs gave of their best to keep its waters cool 
and sweet. From start to finish it was uncon- 
taminated. When, at last, it found the river, it 
rested for a little in a big, clear pool, before giving 
of its freshness to the warmer waters of the larger 
stream. Just here, with clean gravel underneath 



THE TOWN-MEETING 37 

and the nodding birches casting their shadows 
overhead, enswathed in a delicious coolness that 
defied the heat of the August sun, were gathered 
the clans on the day of which we write. It was 
here that they were deceived, betrayed, undone by 
a stony-hearted Preacher who had journeyed far 
to be present at this meeting. But that suggests 
backing up and starting over again in order to get 
the Preacher to this lonely spot. 

How did he find the town-meeting? That is a 
long story and must be compressed if told at all. 
It would take more time than we have at our com- 
mand to describe the mighty struggle through 
which the Preacher passed in wrenching himself 
away from the seductive stockyards' odours of Chi- 
cago. He succeeded, however, and went meander- 
ing through New York State and Massachusetts, 
finally taking passage on a venerable tub that crawls 
— in fair weather — between Boston and Yarmouth. 
There was a vague idea haunting the ministerial 
mind that he wanted to see the Evangeline country; 
but that infant persuasion died suddenly in Digby. 
If any American tourist wants to see Nova Scotia 
let him keep away from Digby or put it last on his 
list. For fascination it discounts the Lorelei. All 
right-minded people (that means those who love to 
sail and fish) are charmed with this little town. 

If we had not set out to tell how the Preacher 
broke up that Blue Rock town-meeting, we should 
stop right here and relate one or two mild stories 



38 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

about the fishing at Digby. Did you ever catch 
pollock that were run by ninety-horse-power steam 
engines? Pollock that would strike so hard that 
they dislocated the fisherman's shoulders when he 
tried to check them up a bit? Did you ever catch 
a codfish weighing two hundred and seventy 
pounds ? Now this is not about pollock or codfish, 
and it is just possible that one figure ought to be 
taken off the weight of that cod. Do not ask that 
we tell about the day's fishing on the Bay of Fundy, 
for we must not do it. We " could a tale unfold," 
but it shall not be unfolded here lest we never get 
to that town-meeting. 

It was at the supper table in a Fredericton hotel 
that the existence of Blue Rock Pool first became 
known to the Preacher. He had opened his heart 
to the whole company and begged of them infor- 
mation concerning the trout fishing in that locality. 
One guest said that by driving out to the northeast 
four miles trout could be gotten in limited numbers 
and of small proportions. Another suggested go- 
ing up the St. John's River some ten miles. There 
was much talk of what had been done in time past, 
and much regret expressed that the Preacher had 
not come in June or waited until later. The time 
was very unfavourable — it always is. Under such 
consolation the mercury in the ministerial ther- 
mometer sank out of sight. When supper was 
over and the Preacher was leaving the table, a small 
man who had not said a word during the entire 



THE TOWN-MEETING 39 

meal took the discouraged dominie to one side and 
said: 

"If you are willing to make a trip of some sixty 
or seventy miles and camp out one night, I can tell 
you of a place where you can get some trout." 

" But," said the Preacher, " I have no tent or 
blankets or duffle of any kind." 

" I'll see to all that," replied the little man; " I 
have everything that you will need, and it is yours 
to use." 

What a lot of good fellows there are in the 
world, and the majority of them love to fish. 
Here was a man putting his precious outfit at the 
disposal of an utter stranger, with no thought of 
reward or desire for it, simply to show a kindness 
to a brother devotee of the gentle art. And the 
little man proved to be a tailor. Now it has been 
said that it takes nine tailors to make a man; but 
you could have made nine average men out of that 
tailor and there would have been material left to 
patch the rest of the race. He gave the Preacher 
the name of a man who could be secured as a guide, 
helped him make out a list of eatables, brought over 
his caribou blanket, tent, dishes, etc., and bright 
and early the next morning the train going north 
carried a passenger bound for Blue Rock Pool. 

Did you ever notice with what reluctance the 
average vehicle of transportation moves when it 
has a fisherman on board? If you use a horse, 
he'll go to sleep; an auto is sure to throw a fit, and 



40 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

a railway train almost invariably stops and goes 
backward for a good share of the time. It looks 
as if there existed some sort of a " combine " to 
prevent the fisherman from making connections 
with the place where he knows bliss is waiting for 
him. It took the train six hours to go fifty miles ! 
They called it an " accommodation " ; but by the 
way that fisherman growled you could see that he 
did not realize that he was being accommodated. 
He did finally get to Doaktown, where his guide 
lived, and found the aforesaid gentleman waiting 
for him at the station in response to a telegram 
sent the night before. His name was George — at 
least it ought to have been — and he was a clean- 
looking, husky fellow about thirty-five years of 
age. Close at hand was Bucephalus adjusted to a 
buckboard. (Bucephalus was the prancing steed 
which had consented to haul us to Caine River.) 
He was not handsome except in behaviour; in that 
he was a beauty. Habakkuk had evidently not 
seen Bucephalus when he wrote : " Their horses are 
swifter than the leopard." The duffle was piled on 
behind the seat, a bag of oats was given the place of 
honour on top of the duffle, and Bucephalus, gently 
and with infinite caution, began to move. A sense 
of security took possession of the Preacher's soul 
with the first step that that horse took. There was 
something dignified and assuring about his move- 
ments that left the mind absolutely free to reflect 
upon the beauties of nature, untroubled by any 



THE TOWN-MEETING 41 

fear of personal injury. About a mile out of 
Doaktown on the road to Caine River was a little 
hill. Bravely Bucephalus tackled it, stopping not 
more than twice each rod to give his passengers 
time to drink in the beauties of the scenery. It was 
during this period of hill-climbing, with its attend- 
ant spaces of quiet, that George began his wary 
approach towards getting acquainted with the 
Preacher. 

George : " Where do you live? " 

Preacher : " Chicago." 

George: "What might your business be?" 

Preacher : " I'm a Preacher." 

Thereupon George's lower jaw dropped until it 
almost seemed to rest upon the dashboard, while he 
rolled a skeptical eye towards his seat-mate. 
Being convinced after prolonged scrutiny that the 
truth had been told, he relapsed into silence, broken 
at last by the remark, " I'll bet you ain't a Baptist 
Preacher." 

When his bet was promptly taken, he brought 
the interview to a close by saying, " You must git 
a mighty sight more pay than our preacher or 
you'd never got so far from home." 

For some time as Bucephalus jogged along 
through the woods George was evidently depressed. 
He may have been reflecting upon certain emphatic 
remarks addressed to Bucephalus earlier in the 
journey, or, possibly, he was wondering how he 
could sneak out of his job. It was evident that he 



42 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

had not reckoned on piloting a body of divinity on 
a fishing trip and was somewhat dubious as to the 
prospect. 

The road ended in Came River, and for the five 
miles farther to Blue Rock Pool there was nothing 
for it but to take to the bed of the stream. It re- 
minded one of driving over the cobble-stone pave- 
ments of Albany, New York, only not quite so 
much so. The Swedish movement which under- 
takes to joggle you all over is not in it for efficiency 
with such a ride. If there is any part of the anat- 
omy that is unmoved by this wiggle and joggle it 
must be in the domain of the " subliminal self." 
When within sight of the destination it was found 
that the Preacher's suit-case, in which he had a 
change of underclothing, reel, flies, etc., had be- 
come discouraged and dropped off. It was found 
a mile down stream, resting against a rock, with 
not a thing wet. " I'll set up the tent and git sup- 
per while you go after 'em," said George, an ar- 
rangement to which the Preacher promptly agreed. 
The bamboo rod was put together, leader and flies 
selected, and, just as the sun was touching the tree- 
tops on the west bank of the river, the Preacher in- 
truded upon the town-meeting. Hon. S. Maximus 
Fontaine had just concluded a deal by which every- 
thing was to go his way, when a strange and gaudy 
insect alighted upon the surface of the pool and 
went wiggling toward the shore. There was a 
wild and unseemly scramble, but the honourable 



THE TOWN-MEETING 43 

wire-puller had his own notions of precedence and, 
cuffing some of the smaller fry out of his way and 
frightening off others by the glare of his eye, he 
proceeded to make that tid-bit his own. No sooner 
had he closed his jaws upon the coveted dainty than 
he was sorry, for there was evidently " a string to 
it " and that string kept steadily tugging at his 
mouth. Much as he believed in " pulls " he did not 
enjoy this one, and tried to part with it. He ca- 
vorted about among his astonished fellow-towns- 
men, flung himself out of the water, darted towards 
a well-known root that had succoured him once be- 
fore in a like experience, but still that firm persua- 
sion at work upon his mouth would not let up and, 
at last, he gave ground and was guided out into the 
river. 

Out in the stream, thirty or forty feet from the 
pool, stood the Preacher engineering this perform- 
ance. To say that he was nervous is a mild state- 
ment. He was scared. It had occurred to him 
just after that battle had begun that his landing net 
was at the camp, and here was a big, big trout to be 
taken care of. A six-ounce bamboo rod does not 
lend itself to the derrick act by which you lift the 
fish out of the water by main force and throw him 
over your head, landing him some eighty rods 
away. It would not do to try tiring out the old 
warrior in the pool, for by the time that was ac- 
complished all of his comrades would be in a state 
of mind that would effectually prevent any further 



44 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

levy upon them. So out in the river that fish must 
come while the fisherman takes his chances. It 
was a long, hard fight, carried on a good part of 
the time in swift water where the chances for the 
fish's escape were excellent; but at last, tired out 
and helpless, he was led into the still and shallow 
water near the shore. There, just as the fisherman 
was reaching down for him, the old politician gave 
a last lunge that snapped the snood, and he was 
free; but before he could gather strength to swim 
away the Preacher lay down on him, and the days 
of Hon. S. Maximus Fontaine were numbered. 

A new fly was fastened to the leader, and the dis- 
turbed citizens were invited to interview it. A 
half-dozen, so small that they did not know any 
better, were gathered in by the Preacher in one- 
two-three order. Then came a tug that meant 
business, and the Preacher began kicking himself 
for forgetting that landing net. It seems that a 
big politician from the Miramichi had come up to 
see how Hon. S. Maximus managed things, and as 
he had seen his friend tackle that first strange in- 
sect and disappear, he concluded that this was the 
proper thing to do. He followed his friend to the 
basket of the Preacher, but not until he had in- 
dulged in some contortions that nearly gave the 
sportsman nervous prostration. 

By this time the shadows had thickened and 
George was yelling: " Supper's ready." He was 
mistaken. It took about fifteen minutes to dress 



THE TOWN-MEETING 45 

and fry those half-dozen small trout — not one 
under half a pound — and while they were cooking 
the Preacher weighed his prizes. Hon. S. Maxi- 
mus came within two ounces, and his friend within 
four ounces of four pounds. Did you ever take a 
four-pound trout, or even a three-pounder, on a 
light rod? Then you know how self-satisfied that 
Preacher was. 

The tent had been pitched on a little plateau some 
fifteen feet above the river. It was nine o'clock 
when supper was finished and the dishes washed, 
horse picketed and everything made ready for the 
night. The caribou skin was laid on the bed of 
boughs, the blankets made ready for cover, and 
George and the Preacher " retired." The camp- 
fire shone out against the dark background of the 
wooded hills, the river sung a lullaby, and George 
told a story about a moose that he had killed the 
previous winter not more than forty rods from the 
spot where they were lying, and — when the Preach- 
er waked he was freezing. The fire had gone out, 
it was nearly daybreak, and those blankets seemed 
made of gauze. He had no inordinate affection 
for George under normal conditions, but now he 
rolled over and clasped him to his heart. George 
seemed to have lost his fear of the Preacher, 
and for the remainder of the night each tried 
to use the other as a stove. Each failed of 
absolute success. 

It is evident that the teller of this story has vio- 



46 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

lated one of the fundamental rules of homiletics, 
and made his porch too large for the house. There 
remains a whole forenoon of fishing to be dis- 
posed of and no time to tell about it. But if we 
had unlimited space at our command, who could fit- 
tingly describe even an hour of successful dalliance 
with the festive trout? 

There were no more of the size of the political 
boss and his friend; but how they came! Some- 
thing over fifty trout preferred the Preacher to the 
town-meeting, and when noon came that meeting 
had adjourned sine die — especially die. Some 
were eaten for dinner, some were on the table at the 
Doaktown hotel that night, George had what he 
wanted, and twenty-one went back with the proud 
Preacher to Fredericton the next morningf. 



IN THE 
NORTH WOODS 







This simple fact, so glad in itself, 
so obvious to one who keeps his 
eyes open in Nature's world, is men- 
tioned here by way of invitation — 
to assure the reader if he but enter 
this School of the Woods, he will 
see little of that which made his 
heart ache in his own sad world; 
no tragedies or footlight effects of 
woes or struggles but rather a 
wholesome, cheerful life to make 
one glad and send him back to his 
own school with deeper wisdom and 
renewed courage. — William J. 
Long, School of the Woods. 




IV 



IN THE NORTH WOODS 




QTOP a minute ! " 
^ It was the frightful jolt as one 
of the wheels of the wagon struck 
a high boulder and then went down 
to the hub in a mud-hole that, 
called forth this plaintive request. 
"I'll get out and walk!" 

The cry came from one, but we made it unani- 
mous with great alacrity. We were making our 
way in a lumber wagon from the railway station 
to Otter Lake. The driver said it was only ten 
miles to our destination, and for the first hour we 
were comparatively hilarious; then we struck the 
woods and trouble began. It was growing dark, 
and stumps and stones and sink-holes could not be 
seen and so were taken as they came. The wagon 
rose upon some obstruction to come down with a 
jar that seemed to loosen every joint in the body. 

49 



50 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

A little of this was quite enough, and the party 
made the last part of the trip on foot, tripping and 
stumbling through the darkness until, after what 
seemed an interminable time, the lights of the 
cabin flashed out through the trees. We were in 
no condition to be curious as to our surroundings 
that night and, after a supper of fried trout, were 
glad to tumble into bed. The remark of one of the 
boys of the family that the " old man " was away, 
did not seem to possess much significance until 
later on when we learned that he was serving time 
in the county jail for shooting deer out of season. 

In the sunshine of the next morning we saw our 
surroundings clearly for the first time. A little 
clearing of a couple of acres on the lake shore, a 
rough log cabin with a rougher barn, a beautiful 
little lake guarded on the east and south by high 
hills timbered to their summits, — what more could 
the seeker after rest and recreation ask? Otter 
Lake is too small to be entitled to a place on the 
average map of New York, but it lies north of the 
Mohawk River and east of the railway running 
from Utica to Clayton. It is not far enough east 
to be considered as in the Adirondacks, and the sec- 
tion is familiarly known as the " North Woods." 
An alternative term is "John Brown's Tract," as 
the hero of Ossawatomie at one time owned hun- 
dreds, if not thousands of acres of land in this lo- 
cality, and cherished ambitious plans for a colony. 

The party was made up of the Doctor, the Hard- 



IN THE NORTH WOODS 51 

ware Man, Frank, Jim, the Boy and the Preacher. 
Poor Jim! He could ill afford the expense of the 
outing, but he " felt all played out," as he expressed 
it, and the physician had ordered him from behind 
the counter to the woods. Every day he cheerfully 
assured us that he was feeling better, and every day 
he grew thinner and his breathing more difficult. 
He was in the beginning of a fight which was to go 
on for a couple of years longer; then he gave up the 
battle and lay down to rest. 

We had come prepared to camp out, and imme- 
diate preparations were made for realizing this 
ambition. The guide proposed Independence River 
as a favourable point and, as we knew nothing of 
that or any other part of the country, we acted 
upon his suggestion, especially as he had told mar- 
vellous tales of the Independence River trout. It 
was not a long or hard tramp to the place where 
we struck the river and pitched the tent. The sun 
was shining, the air was soft and warm, and the 
Hardware Man was running over with enthusiasm. 
As we made ready for the night, with a big fire 
blazing in front of the open tent, he remarked, 
" I've looked forward to this hour from my boy- 
hood." W^hereas the more experienced members 
of the party pulled on extra sweaters for the night, 
the Hardware Man proceeded to disrobe as if he 
were in his house in Harlem. When some one 
suggested that he might feel the need of this cloth- 
ing before morning, he exhibited his sleeping bag 



52 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

made of blankets and assured us that this would be 
quite sufficient. Just before dawn the next morn- 
ing, when the camp-fire had gone out and a pene- 
trating chill was in the air, some of the party were 
awakened by the movements of the Hardware 
Man. He crawled out of his sleeping bag, arrayed 
himself in his discarded garments, and when asked 
what was the trouble declared, " I'm freezing. 
One night of this is more than enough. My am- 
bition is satisfied." 

That day was devoted to the alleged trout of In- 
dependence River. From what the guide had told 
us we had supposed that two-pounders were 
impatiently waiting to be caught. We fished all 
day and averaged half a trout apiece. Six ardent 
fishermen managed to capture three trout, not all 
of which would weigh two pounds. Evidently 
something was wrong. Fortunately, explanations 
abound when fish refuse to bite. It is too early or 
too late in the season. We haven't the proper bait. 
It is too warm or too cold. They were taking 
everything offered last week, or they will begin bit- 
ing next week. This time the fish had left the 
stream and were gathered on the " spring-holes," 
so the guide assures us, and we do not question his 
pronunciamento. The trouble was that we 
couldn't find any spring-holes. One thing the 
Preacher did find for which he was not looking; 
namely, a narrow escape from being shot. He had 
made a short cut through the underbrush to strike 



IN THE NORTH WOODS 53 

the river higher up, and as he came out upon the 
border of the stream found himself looking into 
the muzzle of a gun. A party coming down the 
river in a boat had heard the crashing in the woods 
and, of course, thought of deer. All that saved 
the Preacher was the fact that the man with the gun 
did not belong to that group of invincible idiots 
who shoot at a noise or at an unidentified moving 
object. A week later, in a camp three miles away, 
a young man was shot and instantly killed by his 
camp-mate who saw something moving in the 
bushes and fired on the chance of its being a deer. 
At the close of the day the Hardware Man pre- 
sented numerous and cogent reasons why we should 
not spend another night in camp, and just before 
sundown we struck the trail back to the cabin. 

After that we were content to make daily excur- 
sions, returning to the cabin at night. Camp life is 
delightful when proper provision has been made 
for comfort; otherwise, it is a delusion and a snare. 
We had not outfitted as we should, and our guide 
either did not know how to make good our de- 
ficiencies or was too lazy to undertake the job. 
There is a deal of poetry about tent-dwelling, and 
not infrequently that is all. It is possible to have a 
tent that will not leak, pitched so that a heavy rain 
will not turn your sleeping place into a pond; a 
bough-bed so constructed that the boughs do not 
poke you in the ribs all night; a commissary de- 
partment that allows some little variety in the bill 



54 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

of fare and a cook who can at least boil potatoes. 
This, we say, is possible, and these desirable fea- 
tures are sometimes actualities, When they are, 
life is " one grand, sweet song." But there are 
worse experiences than returning after a day's 
tramp, tired and hungry, to find awaiting you an 
easy chair, a well-cooked meal and a comfortable 
bed under the shelter of a roof. 

This outing was in the days before " jacking for 
deer " had become not only illegal but entirely un- 
ethical. The Preacher and Frank, with the guide, 
tramped one afternoon to a little lake some four 
miles away for the purpose of floating for deer that 
night. As it is useless to go on such a quest when 
the moon is in the sky, and that luminary had fixed 
upon ten o'clock as the hour for retiring that night, 
a fire was kindled on the hill-side, well back from 
the water, and the hunters waited upon the slow 
setting of the moon. Many questions of more or 
less importance were discussed and, at last, Frank 
said to the Preacher, 

" Have you ever read ' Robert Elsmere ' ? " 

" Yes," answered the Preacher. " Why do you 
ask?" 

" Well, Pastor advised me not to read it. 

He said he had preached on the book twice, and 
he had never read it." 

The Preacher chuckled and then roared, until the 
guide growled, " You'll scare all the deer out of the 
lake and over the mountain if you make so much 



IN THE NORTH WOODS 55 

noise." Possibly it was the Preacher's vociferous 
hilarity that explains why we " jacked " around the 
shores of the lake that night for two hours without 
sighting anything more animated than a dead 
stump. The Preacher was comparatively young 
then and had not learned that the less we know 
about a matter the more unrestrained and cock- 
sure we may be in discussing it. 

Not a few experiences are more amusing when 
considered in retrospect than at the time when they 
are going forward. When the guide proposed to* 
the Preacher that they visit a little lake a couple of 
miles from the cabin, try for trout at sundown and 
then float for deer when darkness had fallen, the 
proposition was greeted with applause. Although 
the trail was not an easy one, the guide carried a 
canoe on his shoulders and the Preacher trudged 
on behind with the guns and rods, his mind filled 
with alluring visions of mighty trout and at least 
one big buck. When the lake was reached and it 
came time to joint the rods, it was discovered that 
the reels and lines had been forgotten. The fly- 
book, with its gaudy contents, was in the Preacher's 
pocket, but neither of the two felt competent to do 
any successful fishing without a line. It would be 
dark before the trip to camp and back could be 
made and, reluctantly, the fishing part of the trip 
was abandoned. That night there was no moon to 
compel them to wait upon its slow movements, and 
as soon as darkness had fallen the " jack " was 



56 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

lighted and the slow circling of the lake began. 
About two-thirds of the way around, the guide 
stopped paddling, then gave the canoe a little twist 
so that the bow pointed towards shore, and the 
Preacher felt the slight shaking of the canoe 
agreed upon as the signal to shoot. Shoot at 
what ? He could see nothing. 

A whisper came from the guide — " Shoot ! " 

" Where? " was wafted back from the half-par- 
alyzed lips of the Preacher. 

" There at the edge of the lily-pads, just a little 
to your left." Did the Preacher see the dim out- 
line of a form? He does not know to this day, but 
he shot as he was commanded. A mighty snort 
answered the shot, then splashing of water and 
breaking of limbs, and the guide announced, " You 
missed him." The assertion was entirely gratui- 
tous. In fact, the Preacher had not expected to 
hit what he could not see. 

Just about that time a thunder-cloud in the west 
became so threatening that the guide proposed that 
they go on shore and get under shelter. That 
sounded good, but it was not just clear to the pas- 
senger where the shelter was to be found. How- 
ever, the mystery was solved when the guide pulled 
the canoe to a dry spot on shore, turned it upside 
down, and both crept under it as the first big drops 
of rain came pelting down. Just as the Preacher 
was congratulating himself upon their good for- 
tune, the dulcet note of a mosquito sounded in his 



IN THE NORTH WOODS 57 

ears. He promptly slapped, and then kept on slap- 
ping. The singer was the advance guard of an in- 
numerable host. All of the tribe between Paul 
Smith's and Lowville had evidently gathered to the 
feast. To make a bad matter the worst possible, 
the quarters were exceedingly cramped. One 
could not well roll over without rolling from under 
the canoe. The omnipresent root was persistently 
punching the Preacher's ribs. To lift his suffer- 
ings to the nth power, that guide went to sleep 
and actually snored. It would have been a satis- 
faction to have companionship in suffering, but 
now this was denied him. Was it only four hours ? 
It seemed like four eternities before the guide de- 
cided that they ought to start for the cabin. The 
storm had passed, but every bush showered quarts 
of water at the slightest touch. Just where the 
advantage lies in keeping dry from the storm, only 
to get soaked to the skin from tramping through 
miles of wet underbrush, is not yet quite clear. 
At two o'clock in the morning the cabin was 
reached, sans trout, sans deer, but not sans mos- 
quito bites or a thorough drenching. 

What a day that was which the Doctor and the 
Preacher spent on the East Fork ! The lake is fed 
by two streams, one flowing in from the southeast 
and the other from the southwest. By a trail the 
eastern branch could be struck well up towards its 
source, and from this point down to the lake fur- 
nished just about the right distance for a day's fish- 



58 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

ing. Bright and early the start was made, with 
plenty of bread and butter, a skillet, and a supply of 
fat, salt pork. The fisherman who could not be 
happy on such a stream, on such a day, whether 
the fish would bite or not, listening to the laughter 
of the water, watching the flickers of sunshine 
strained through the meshes of the trees, drinking 
in the sweet, pure air, in close touch with nature, is 
a hopeless pessimist. Fishing side by side, some- 
times one and then the other going first, the friends 
loitered down that beautiful stream while " not a 
wave of trouble rolled across their peaceful 
breasts." Now and then an exceptionally fine trout 
was taken, and then fishing was suspended while 
they examined and exclaimed over it. They won- 
dered again, as they had often done before, why 
some of the fish should be red of fin and belly and 
with yellow meat, while others had the greyish- 
white fin and belly, with white meat. The 
Preacher caught two trout from under the same 
log, one with blood-red fins and golden flesh, the 
other white. They were both speckled trout, lived 
side by side, ate the same food, but differed as 
greatly as a red-headed boy and an albino. 

At noon, where the waters of a cold spring 
bubbled out of the bank, a fire was made, the fat 
pork set to sizzling in the skillet and then — but 
what's the use? Trout fresh from the brook, fried 
over a fire in the open and eaten with an appetite 
engendered by hours of tramping and wading, 



IN THE NORTH WOODS 59 

make a dis'n for the adequate description of which 
words are impotent. Of course, the smaller trout 
were chosen for the mid-day meal, not alone that 
the catch might look better when exhibited that 
night, but because they tasted better than the larger 
ones. How many did we eat? Ask the Doctor! 
Who should understand the proper amount of food 
to be taken into the stomach at a single meal, if not 
one of his profession? 

An hour or so for luncheon and chatting, and 
then into the stream again and on our way towards 
its mouth. The creels were getting heavy, and the 
Doctor decided to take a short cut for the lake 
shore. Just before starting, the two were stand- 
ing near together fishing a pool, when the Doctor, 
taking a forward step, slipped on a smooth stone 
and began falling. The process was the most slow, 
deliberate, and altogether comical the Preacher 
ever witnessed. As he began losing his balance 
and tipping over backwards, he made frantic 
efforts to regain his poise. Both hands waving in 
the air, one clutching his rod, eyes popping out of 
his head, a look of mingled surprise and disgust 
illuminating his manly face, the final, mighty splash 
as the stream yielded to the impact of his body, 
formed a most delightful picture for his sympa- 
thetic and sorrowing comrade. Strangely enough, 
the Doctor could not see the humour of the situa- 
tion, and if he should ever deign to read this 
truthful record it is doubtful if he cracks a smile. 



60 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

Thoroughly drenched, the Doctor's previous de- 
termination to take a short-cut home was much 
strengthened. He struck off into the woods and 
the Preacher was left alone to follow the stream. 
When he had reached the cabin the Doctor had not 
arrived. When it was almost sundown and no 
Doctor, the guide started out in search of him. 
According to later reports the Doctor was found in 
a depressed state of mind playing hide-and-go-seek 
with the trees in a tamarack swamp. The guide 
declared that he knew where they were all of the 
time — a most credible statement. They were in a 
tamarack swamp. It was well towards nine 
o'clock when they arrived at camp, and it took a 
hot supper to restore their normal good spirits. 

The guide had frequently, descanted upon the ex- 
cellence of the fishing on " Lost Creek "; but as that 
stream was seven miles away, and no trail led to it, 
members of the party had not shown great eager- 
ness to make the trip. But when the lake and 
near-by streams had become familiar through fre- 
quent visits, the Doctor, the Boy and the Preacher 
decided upon an excursion to " Lost Creek." 
After crossing the lake, the guide plunged into 
what seemed an impenetrable jungle, and steadily 
led the way up and over the hill, through dense 
thickets showing no sign of ever having been trav- 
ersed before. He never seemed to hesitate which 
way to go, and his confidence was inexplicable to 
those who followed until he pointed to a tree that 



IN THE NORTH WOODS 61 

had been " blazed," then to another in the distance. 
He was not guessing or travelling by compass, but 
following a " blazed trail." 

The first sight of the stream was disappointing 
not to say disheartening. Here was no dashing 
brook dancing its way along, but seemingly dead 
water in a great stretch of marsh land. The guide 
called it a " beaver-meadow," although we saw no 
signs of the animal or of its architectural activities. 
But there were trout, as we soon proved. Pushing 
along through the marsh grass, frequent catches of 
good-sized fish were made, until at last the 
Preacher had a notable experience, not only for 
that day, but for any he ever spent in fishing. The 
Doctor was fishing ahead, and as he vacated a dry 
hummock, having taken two trout from that point 
of vantage, his friend stepped into the same spot. 
The first cast brought a trout, as did the second and 
the third and so on until he had taken sixty fine fish 
without stirring from his tracks. And they all came 
from the same point in the stream. The lure fell 
in vain three feet away from this particular spot. 
They were not fingerlings, but ten-inch and twelve- 
inch fellows. The Preacher's creel and his pockets 
were full when the guide and the Doctor, returning 
along the creek, came upon him. The guide's ex- 
planation was that the fortunate Preacher hap- 
pened in his first cast to strike a " pot-hole," a de- 
pression in the bed of the creek, where the water 
was cool and in which the trout gathered in great 



62 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

numbers. The explanation mattered little to the 
Preacher; it was the fact that counted. Even now 
he would gladly give two old sermons to be per- 
mitted to stand again on the banks of " Lost 
Creek " if he were sure of locating that " pot-hole." 



OVER 
THE 

SIMPLON 
PASS 








V 



OVER THE SIMPLON PASS 




E agreed, my wife and I, that the 
couple whom we saw for the first 
time in the post-office at Domo 
d'Ossoli and a little later met in 
the gathering room at the hotel, 
would be well worth knowing. 
They were, evidently, not only husband and 
wife, but good chums, thoroughly congenial, and 
rejoicing in each other's companionship. That 
they were intelligent no one could doubt, and they 
radiated kindliness and courtesy. They were 
dressed for roughing it, and we were prepared for 
the remark of the gentleman, made to a by-stander, 
that they had been spending a week in mountain 
climbing in the neighbourhood. When he added 
that they would cross into the Rhone Valley by dili- 
gence on the morrow, we were conscious of a dis- 
tinctly pleasant sensation at the thought that, for 

65 



66 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

one clay at least, they were to be our fellow-trav- 
ellers. 

The table d'hote that evening gave us the desired 
opportunity to cultivate the acquaintance of the at- 
tractive strangers, for they were seated directly 
across the table from us. 

"Going over the Simplon tomorrow?" I ven- 
ture to ask the gentleman. " Yes." — Dead pause! 
" I am sure that you enjoy Italy," is our next ef- 
fort to make conversation. " Yes," a pause even 
more absolutely dead than the preceding one. 
What's the matter? Do they take us for pick- 
pockets? We furtively examine our attire to see 
if we are looking especially dowdy, but can 
discover nothing very reprehensible. Possi- 
bly they are diffident, so here goes for another 
attempt : 

" Do you know at what time we start in the 
morning? " Of course we know, have known for 
weeks; but it is a question whose answer offers 
good-sized opportunities for something more than 
a monosyllable. 

" Six-thirty." We wait anxiously, but that is all. 
Even the most obtuse individual must come to the 
conclusion that the questioner is being snubbed; 
quite courteously, but also very unmistakably 
snubbed. Our American blood begins to boil 
gently, and a solemn vow is registered then and 
there to let these attractive but unfriendly people 
severely alone. Meanwhile, they have been chat- 



OVER THE SIMPLON PASS 67 

ting with each other in some unfamiliar language 
which is not Italian or French or German. 

When we leave the hotel the next morning for 
the all-day ride over the Alps our unresponsive 
fellow-travellers are in the banquette at the ex- 
treme rear end of the diligence, while we occupy 
the coupe directly under the driver's seat. We 
could not speak to them if we would, and would 
not if we could. Indeed, they are soon forgotten 
in the joy of the hour. The deep blue of the 
Italian sky unflecked by a cloud, the broad, smooth 
highway, the cottages with their tiny patches of 
cultivated land, the exhilarating morning air and 
the rattling pace at which we bowl along for the 
first mile or more, would help us to ignore even a 
greater unhappiness than that caused by the snub- 
bing of the previous evening. 

Now we have left the level road and begin the 
long and tortuous climb towards the summit of 
the Simplon Pass. Again and again we cross the 
brawling stream with which the road disputes the 
right of way. The bridges are all of solid stone. 
Yonder, to the left, the mountains rise in great 
ridges and piles of raw rock, while on the right a 
more gentle slope is covered with grass and shrubs. 
We begin to count the waterfalls, threads of spun 
silver hung against the dark background of the 
rocks, but soon lose track of the count. On the 
heights the snow is lying, and by the roadside the 
wild flowers blossom in profusion. What a glory 



68 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

of flowers we find on these Alpine heights ! In 
every meadow and pasture lot red and yellow and 
blue and purple, with many indescribable shades, 
delight the eye and the heart of the traveller. The 
rhododendron, with its brilliant colouring, is every- 
where, and the little forget-me-not nods to every 
passerby. Up and still up we climb, and every 
turn of the road brings new exclamations of delight 
as the wonderful panorama of mountain and valley 
unfolds before us. 

But now we have reached the summit, and the 
tired horses are brought to a halt in front of the 
little hotel where we are to have our mid-day 
meal. The village is a tiny one, of a dozen houses 
or so. The hotel does not look especially attrac- 
tive, and the meal is even less appetizing than 
the appearance of the building has led us to expect. 
For once in our life we refuse chicken — at least we 
are content with one mouthful. Without attempt- 
ing to file a bill of particulars, it is enough to say 
that the interval between the death of that bird and 
its appearance on the table as food has been unduly 
prolonged. With absolute unanimity the guests 
abjure chicken, for that meal at least. The food 
is so sublimely bad that every one laughs, and even 
our foreign friends who refused to respond to our 
advances of the previous evening join in the merri- 
ment. Somehow, during the course of the meal, 
we are led to speak of our nationality, and then 
comes the revelation. 



OVER THE SIMPLON PASS 69 

"Americans?" cries the hitherto unfriendly 
foreigner. "Americans?" echoes his wife, who 
up to this time had not been supposed to understand 
a word of English. The mystery is solved. This 
gentleman and his wife are Hollanders and have 
taken us for English. It is at the time when the 
English-Boer war is at its height, and the Hollander 
has no dealings with the Englishman if he can help 
it. The gentleman is an Amsterdam physician, 
and a man of culture and wide reading. His evi- 
dent effort to be friendly reaches a climax when 
he tells us of his hotel at Brieg, where we are to 
spend the night, and assures us that there we will 
be certain to have trout for dinner. 

Now for the last half of the trip! We have 
only just left the hotel when the diligence is stopped 
and the passengers are asked to get out and walk 
for a mile across the debris of an avalanche which 
came thundering down from the terminal moraines 
of the Ross Boden glacier the previous spring. The 
diligence sways and lurches and thumps along, 
while we pick our way over stones and ice and 
around giant rocks. Halfway across we meet a 
young man who has spent nearly all of his waking 
hours for months past in search for the body of 
his sister who met her death under the sudden 
sweep of the avalanche. 

Here, in this little monastery — so they tell us — 
is where Napoleon made his headquarters for a 
time when he led his troops over the mighty moun- 



70 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

tains to the sunny plains of Italy. We stop long 
enough to admire the St. Bernard dogs, and then 
on down the mountains. When we begin the 
descent some of the party assert that this ride will 
be less interesting than that of the morning when 
we were all the time climbing upward. Possibly 
it is; but it is far more exciting. Five horses 
going at full speed towards a precipice which drops 
away for a full thousand feet, the leaders seem- 
ingly pawing into space before they turn the corner, 
the outer wheels of the diligence constantly flirting 
with the edge of the precipice — these are things 
that lead to nervous prostration. As I look back 
at that trip I am satisfied that it was only by lean- 
ing hard toward the inside of the road that I saved 
the passengers and the whole outfit from untimely 
destruction. 

When the Amsterdam doctor descanted upon 
the deliciousness of the trout served in the Brieg 
hostelry, he awakened memories of the Nepigon 
and the Adirondacks, of northern Wisconsin and 
the Miramichi ! I formed a resolution, then and 
there, to catch as well as to eat some of the trout 
for which Brieg was said to be famous. Arriving 
at Brieg at 5.30 p.m. after our drive of forty miles, 
I at once interviewed the concierge of the hotel, 
who assured me that it would be no trick at all to 
catch a mess of trout before dinner-time. Away 
to a tackle store, where line and leader and hooks 
were bought and a cane-pole rented, an interview 



OVER THE SIMPLON PASS 71 

with the hotel " boy," who dug a can of worms fat 
enough to have come from Holland, and then for 
the Rhone, which was rushing along the valley 
about half a mile distant. The first sight of the 
river somewhat dampened my ardour. It was of 
a dirty milk colour, and no respectable American 
trout would live in it for a moment. But then, I 
reasoned, Swiss trout may not know any better — 
so here goes. I fished in the rapids and in swirling 
pools, under low bending alders and by the side of 
huge rocks. I skittered those fat worms on the 
surface, and dropped them down to the bottom. 
Every trick of the angler learned by experience or 
gathered from conversation and reading, was tried 
in vain. Tell it not in Skegemog and publish it 
not on Prairie River! — but I never had a bite. 
And yet I was not cast down. The setting sun 
was turning the mountain tops into glory, the 
laughterof reapers ina neighbouring field, the tinkle 
of goats' bells far up the mountain side, the gurgle 
and singing of the Rhone, the beauty of that match- 
less valley — I had gained all these by my efforts, 
even though of fish I had none. 

Let no hard-hearted reader giggle over my poor 
luck, for when I sat down that night to dinner, 
and the far-famed Brieg trout were placed before 
me, behold ! they were not trout at all, but some 
sort of a sucker, full of pronged bones and with 
soft white meat. I never had any ambition to 
catch suckers. 



ON SEA 
AND SHORE 





VI 



ON SEA AND SHORE 




R. W. D. HOWELLS made a 
most pathetic confession some 
years ago in an article contrib- 
uted to a well-known journal 
when he said concerning vaca- 
tions, " Whatever choice you 
make, you are pretty sure to regret it." Either 
Mr. Howells was " out of tune with the universe " 
or he never tried Edgartown. 

Lest some of our readers should assume some 
selfish motive as prompting this bold proclamation 
of Edgartown as an attractive spot in which to 
spend the summer days, let it be said that the writer 
does not stand in with any hotel proprietor or real 
estate dealer in this village by the sea — or 
elsewhere. 

Just how Martha's Vineyard came by its name 
is not certain. One tradition has it that when, in 

75 



76 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

1605, Bartholomew Gosnold sailed from England 
for " Northern Virginia " and chanced upon No 
Man's Land, he gave it the name of Martha's Vine- 
yard, and that, for some unknown reason, this 
name was transferred to the neighbouring island. 

Still another tradition alleges that the first settler 
on the island had a loved daughter to whom he gave 
a tract of land where vines grew luxuriantly; and 
so not only her tract, but the whole island came to 
be known as Martha's Vineyard. Neither theory 
costs anything; they are probably about equally 
true — you can take your choice. 

At the extreme eastern end of Martha's Vine- 
yard is the quaint, restful village of Edgartown. 
Turn your face towards the sun-rise and you look 
across a narrow bay to Chappaquicldick Island, 
lying like a giant earthwork to protect the village 
from the assaults of the ocean. Wouldn't you like 
to ramble about a bit? We'll start in at this 
ravine south of the town, for it was here that the 
first settler made his home. Considering that he 
built his log cabin in 1630, only ten years after the 
landing of the Pilgrims, it is not strange that 
nothing remains to mark the place of his abode 
but this grass-grown depression in the hill-side. 

Going south along the main street we come to 
the old Mayhew house, built in 1698, and looking 
as if it proposed to stand for a few centuries longer. 
Tradition has it that during the Revolutionary 
War a cannon-ball passed through its walls, going 



ON SEA AND SHORE 77 

in at the rear and coming out at the front. We 
stop just long enough to make an unsuccessful hunt 
for the hole, and then on to the Collins place. 
What is there especially interesting about this fairly 
modern house ? Just this : that it was our home 
through many summer days, and we can never 
think of it or of its hospitable mistress without a 
thrill of delight. Out there in the front yard 
gleam the white grave-stones which mark the rest- 
ing places of members of the family who died a 
hundred and fifty years ago. From the wide 
porch at the back of the house you look out over 
the bay to Chappaquiddick, and may even catch 
glimpses of the sea, looking either to the north or 
to the south. 

We've rested long enough, and will resume our 
journey up the street to the Fisher house. Some 
day we will make a long stop here, for it is a pre- 
Revolutionary mansion and full of relics of the 
olden days. Here are quaint old deeds, some of 
them in the Indian language, and no end of curios 
gathered by members of the family during a pro- 
longed stay in Spain. 

If you've leisure, let's visit the piers. Time was 
when all was bustle here, but it is depressingly 
quiet now. Forty vessels in a single year sailed 
from this port in search of whales. An old record 
bearing date of November n, 1652, tells us that 
" Thos. Daggett and Wm. Weeks are appointed 
whale cutters for this year; voted the day above 



78 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

written." In those days whales were frequently 
cast upon the beach by severe storms, and whale 
cutters were appointed to insure a fair division of 
the spoil. Now the whaling industry is a thing of 
the past. One of the pathetic sights of the village 
is an old whaling vessel tied to the pier and slowly 
rotting away. It is many a year since the last of 
these vessels sailed from port, but if we are for- 
tunate enough to meet one of the retired captains 
and can induce him to tell us something of his 
experiences, we shall come quite near enough to 
the hardships and privations of those heroic days. 
Do you see that man going along Water Street? 
He sailed a whaling vessel for forty years, and 
one of his voyages lasted six years lacking ten 
days. 

You can take your choice between visiting the 
old burial ground on " Tower Hill " or going out 
for a sail. Take the sail? I thought so. Of 
course, there are brown old head-stones with quaint 
epitaphs up there on the hill, but who that is in 
possession of his senses would pass up the chance 
to go sailing in a Cape Cod catboat on such a day 
as this? 

Here we are on board the " Quickstep," one of 
the smartest boats on the coast, with a captain who 
knows the sea as a native New Yorker knows 
Broadway. While we are dropping down the bay 
before the light wind, you may like to hear of the 
gale when this same boat and captain were blown 



ON SEA AND SHORE 79 

out to sea. The storm came up suddenly and the 
wind blew directly off shore. The captain was 
fishing just off the Muskeget shoals and tried hard 
to beat in, but in vain. When the gale had blown 
itself out, wrecks were strewn all along the coast, 
and the Edgartown people had given up the captain 
for lost; but on the fourth day he came sailing into 
harbour. Single-handed and alone he had fought 
the storm and had won the fight. 

Isn't this a great day? and isn't this the ideal 
way of getting over the water? Better let the 
captain take the tiller, for we're coming to the bar 
and the channel is crooked. Now we're over and 
you can see Nantucket off there to the south. 
Where you see the rough water is Muskeget shoals, 
and the captain says that at certain tides the 
strongest vessel would be wrenched to pieces by 
the fierce currents and counter-currents. Did you 
ever see sky more blue or feel air more full of 
tonic ? Don't worry ! We shall curtsy a little, 
but the water is not rough enough to make trouble 
for the most sensitive landsman. Going around 
Chappaquiddick, Captain? Good! That is just 
about a twenty-mile sail. 

Have I ever been out here when it was rough? 
Haven't I told you about the trip after mackerel 
when we had on board a load of theology? No? 
Well, we shall have plenty of time for the story 
before we sight the light-house. 

It was a nasty sort of a morning, but as friends 



80 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

had come over from Cottage City the night before 
for the express purpose of having a day with the 
mackerel we concluded to try it notwithstanding 
the weather. Dr. G. had brought along his boy of 
twelve, and as we sailed down the quiet water of 
the bay that boy was simply bubbling over with 
happiness. The lad besought his father to make 
an arrangement with the captain whereby he should 
spend at least a month on this boat the following 
summer. The captain seemed willing, and as we 
crossed the bar the boy was exulting in the assur- 
ance of long days of perfect bliss only one year 
ahead. The wind was blowing fresh from the 
north-west and as soon as we were out from under 
the shelter of the land the boat began to curvet and 
jump and roll and quick-step just as any respect- 
able boat is bound to do under such circumstances. 
In less time than it takes to write this down the 
joy of life had departed for that lad and he was 
carefully laid away. The lone layman of the party 
was a close second, and, losing all interest in mack- 
erel, he stretched himself out on deck. The Pro- 
fessor followed suit, and Dr. G., after a heroic 
struggle, proceeded to part company not only with 
one breakfast, but, seemingly, with a dozen or 
more. The captain, who was an interested spec- 
tator of the process, murmured to the writer, 
" Holy mackerel ! What an eater that man must 
be." All day we rolled and pitched, with three of 
the party groaning to be put on shore. We caught 



ON SEA AND SHORE 81 

only a few mackerel, but we had a great deal of 
exercise. 

How do we catch mackerel ? As you are asking 
how we do it, and not how it is done by the heart- 
less, unimaginative, commercialized Philistines who 
chase the schools in steam vessels, I'll tell you. 
The night before, the captain gets the fodder 
ready. I mean the fodder for the mackerel, not 
for the fishermen. It is about as nauseous a mess 
as one can imagine. Salted menhaden and the 
refuse from scallops are ground up together, form- 
ing a mass of about the consistency of thick 
molasses. There is the grinder now, just inside 
the cabin ! Looks like a big coffee-mill. 

We usually start early in the morning, some- 
times before daylight, in order to take advantage 
of a favourable tide. When we are out to sea a 
sharp lookout is kept for that peculiar ripple on 
the surface of the water which denotes the presence 
of a school of mackerel. When we have sailed to 
the spot we " come-to " and drift with the tide, 
while dipperful after dipperful of the " chum " — 
as the sticky and malodorous mess is called — is 
thrown out upon the water. The mackerel will 
throng about the boat to feed upon this dainty, and 
then the fishing begins. Empty barrels on deck, a 
line — some fifteen feet long — in each hand, with 
hooks that are set into pieces of lead forming a 
" squid," and the sport begins. It is usual to bait 
with a piece of mackerel belly, pure white; but 



82 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

very often the greedy fish will bite at the shining 
lead. You do not stop to unhook the fish, but 
simply slap them over into the barrel behind you, 
and then out with the hook again. Sport? Yes, 
of a sort. Gets a little monotonous after a while. 
The captain fishes for the Boston market, so we 
have no twinges of conscience about catching as 
many as possible. 

Do we catch anything besides mackerel? If 
you'll put out that line and the captain will sail 
along the edge of one of these " rips " you are 
very likely to have a practical answer to your ques- 
tion. Nothing that time; but the captain is coming 
about and we'll see what happens on the other tack. 
This is the poetry of sea-fishing. Here we are 
bowling along with a full sheet and — hang on to 
him ! No, you have not hooked on to a railroad 
train but a blue-fish. Look out! Don't slacken 
on your line or you'll lose him. Hurts your 
fingers? Of course it does. You should have 
put cots on them. Give him a swing! Keep him 
clear of the boat! There! 

There's your answer. He's the bravest, pluck- 
iest, gamiest fish on the coast. We sometimes 
spend a half day or so fishing for bottom-fish like 
scup, black-fish, or even flounders, for they bite 
freely and bring a fair price in the market; but if 
you're fishing for sport, there is just one fish in 
these waters which fills the bill completely, and that 
is the blue-fish. Sometimes you fish for hours 



ON SEA AND SHORE 83 

without getting a strike, and then all at once you 
run into a school of them. When this happens 
you have your work cut out for you. I remember 
a day at Block Island when the Doctor and I had 
sailed almost entirely around the island with our 
lines trailing unmolested behind the boat. Just as 
we were approaching the starting place the captain 
said, " Look at the bluebills jumping, over towards 
shore ! " The bluebill is a small fish some four or 
five inches long, and favourite food for the blue- 
fish. We tacked and sailed across the school, back 
and forth, again and again, and when the fray was 
over we had sixty blue-fish lying in the bottom of 
the boat that averaged over five pounds in weight. 
There's the light-house; we'll soon be in. See 
that hotel on the hill? I've just time to tell you 
of something that happened there on a summer 

morning a few years ago. I met Dr. on 

the Providence boat and he asked where we were 
stopping and if we had any fishing. When I told 
him of the " Quickstep " and Captain Frank and 
the mackerel, he said, " I'll be over Monday morn- 
ing. I'm tired of Assemblies and Chautauquas and 
hotel piazzas." Monday found him with us, and 
arrangements were made to start at five o'clock 

Tuesday morning. The hour came, but Dr. 

did not. The captain worried about the tide and 
the bar, and I volunteered to see what had become 
of our tardy friend. Pounding on the hotel door 
I finally managed to rout out the night watchman, 



84 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

who readily went in quest of the Doctor. Upon 
his return he reported that the would-be fisherman 
had been asleep, but was now dressing and would 
be down very soon. The minutes passed, the tide 
was ebbing, and no Doctor. Finally I suggested 
to the watchman that he make another trip to see 
if he could not accelerate the Doctor's motions. 
Reappearing after a little, the watchman said, 
"What do you think? That miserable old cuss 
had gone sound asleep again." " What a fall was 
there, my countrymen! " The D. D., the LL. D., 
the eloquent preacher, the famous lecturer, the 
renowned defender of the " faith once delivered to 
the saints," the man whose name is a household 
word among those affiliated with one of our largest 
Protestant bodies catalogued as a " miserable old 
cuss! " 

Here we are, at the pier. Confess now, that for 
unadulterated pleasure a sail such as we've just 
had beats motoring, whether on land or water, 
out of sight. Independent of the wind in a motor 
boat? Yes, but not of the sputtering and chugging 
and smell. Remember what Tennyson says in 
Locksley Hall? I don't know that I can quote it 
accurately, but the idea is that a day in a cat-boat 
is better than a thousand years in a naphtha launch. 



AMONG 
THE 

NORTHERN 
PINES 





VII 



AMONG THE NORTHERN PINES 




E reached the lake in the evening, 
and started out bright and early 
the next morning to call upon 
some of the old inhabitants who 
wear fins and have a reputation 
for being scaly. A new and fasci- 
nating Dowagiac minnow caught the eye of a big 
bass before we had gone forty rods, and connec- 
tions were promptly established. As he was being 
kindly but firmly persuaded to approach the boat 
he flung himself into the air, gave a twist and a 
wiggle and a shake and thus succeeded in appropri- 
ating that Dowagiac to his own uses. He has not 
been heard from since that brief interview, but it 
is safe to say that he is putting on airs as he 
dangles that rainbow-coloured minnow before the 
eyes of his admiring relatives. We have some- 
times doubted the truth of the old saw that it is 

87 



88 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

unlucky to lose the first fish hooked, but all doubt 
on that point has been put to flight. 

A day or two later five fine bass were caught one 
afternoon and hung over the side of the boat on a 
hastily improvised stringer. Rowing home the 
stringer parted through chafing on the side of the 
boat and the bass went their respective ways. Not 
content with this unfriendly slap, Dame Fortune — 
or inexcusable carelessness — permitted the string 
of the minnow pail, also hanging over the side of 
the boat, to break, involving the loss not only of 
the pail but of some four dozen A-i minnows. 
When the Junior had captured a three-pound bass 
we concluded to tie him — the bass — up to a root 
that reached out over the water and to keep him 
until later. Just when he seemed to be thoroughly 
halter-broken he succeeded in untying the knot and 
we saw him no more. All this was bad enough, 
but to make a complete job of our discomfiture 
the minnow-trap which was supposed to be busily 
at work luring bait for our use, suddenly and 
unaccountably disappeared. Then the outer pail 
of the new minnow-bucket was missing and the 
scaler could not be found. It rained and then 
rained some more. The bass absolutely refused 
to strike at a spoon-hook or pork rind or the new 
Dowagiac. Why did we ever leave our happy 
home? 

It is always darkest just before dawn. The 
outer pail of the new minnow-bucket had been 



AMONG THE NORTHERN PINES 89 

borrowed by a Methodist preacher who was camp- 
ing nearby, and was returned the same afternoon. 
The minnow-trap had been rolled out into deep 
water by the under-tow, and within twenty-four 
hours of its disappearance was back in its 
accustomed place and hard at work. The scaler 
reappeared as suddenly and unaccountably as it 
had disappeared. A new stringer was easily manu- 
factured and, with a plentiful supply of minnows, 
the bass needful to adorn the stringer were easily 
persuaded to come to hook. The weather-man 
repented of his unkindness and gave us days of 
glorious sunshine. The lake dimpled and laughed, 
the pines whispered all kinds of friendly messages, 
the red-squirrels scolded at us from the tree-tops 
where they were busy cutting off pine cones, and 
the chipmunks made friendly advances as we sat 
by the lakeside. The moon almost turned night 
into day and night loons called to us, " Ha ! Ha ! 
What's the matter with you? This is a beautiful 
world. Minnesota is the finest part of the world 
and this is the fairest spot in Minnesota. Cheer 
up! " And we did. 

Now that we have gotten out of the dumps and 
life is worth living, let's go fishing. What shall 
it be? Or will you take anything that comes your 
way? There are bass and crappies and sunfish 
and great northern pike, not to mention rock-bass 
and perch. The natives aver that there are also 
enormous wall-eyed pike and we believe it, although 



90 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

they were always out when we called. Thanks be ! 
there is not a pickerel in the lake. The great 
northern pike looks much like his kinsman, the 
pickerel, but differs in body-markings, gill-covers, 
general shape — being more stocky — and especially 
in palatableness. He is a vigorous fighter. Mr. 
Louis Rhead, in his book on " Fish and Fishing," 
says that neither the great northern pike nor the 
pickerel has ever been known to rise above the 
surface of the water after being hooked. If that 
is correct, then something new under the sun has 
happened recently, for the writer, with eighty to 
a hundred feet of line out, had a nine-pounder 
throw himself entirely out of the water in his 
efforts to escape. The largest ever caught in this 
lake weighed thirty-six pounds, but numbers are 
taken that go over ten pounds each. They are 
nearly as gamey and quite as good eating as the 
muskallonge. 

The crappies are more friendly. Early in our 
stay we located a " bed " which never failed to 
respond to a call. If there is any fish in these 
northern lakes that makes a more delicious dish 
than fried crappies, we want to be introduced to it. 
It is not all unusual to take them weighing a pound 
each, but this seems trifling when the Methodist 
preacher aforementioned tells us that he caught 
seventy-five in Lake Itasca in less than an hour 
which averaged two pounds each. Bass are here 



AMONG THE NORTHERN PINES 91 

in abundance but were not responsive this summer. 
Those caught were ridiculously fat. 

To cap the climax of attractions there is a trout 
stream only three miles away. Visit it? Rather. 
A friendly neighbour furnished horse and buggy 
and acted as guide. We had a few alleged angle- 
worms, and even with these emaciated, scrawny 
apologies for bait we took enough trout to furnish 
a meal for each family represented by the anglers. 
The stream flows through a marsh and is fed by 
numerous springs. Where we first struck the 
brook one needed a magnifying glass to find it. 
How a six-inch trout manages to turn around in 
it passes understanding. It grows as it goes, how- 
ever, and widens into quite a respectable stream 
during its journey of a mile. 

For some years now the writer has been inflict- 
ing fish stories upon the unsuspecting public, and 
the impulse is strong within him to add more to 
those already told. He has a new supply growing 
out of the experiences of the summer, and it is hard 
to keep them bottled up. He would gladly particu- 
larize concerning the ten-inch trout that was wait- 
ing for him under the roots of a big tamarack just 
where the foam had formed a shady hiding-place, 
or mention specially some of the fights with the 
pike. But the cynical skepticism of assumed 
friends, the frivolous, not to say contemptuous 
comments made concerning the writer's previous 
contributions to piscatorial knowledge, have 



92 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

deeply wounded his sensitive spirit, and he can- 
not summon courage to challenge renewed un- 
kindness. 

Just why fish stories should be discredited so 
readily by those who do not fish it is difficult to 
understand. Why should a man who does not 
know the difference between a spoon-hook and an 
ostrich feather and who cannot tell a sunfish from 
a rainbow trout sit in judgment upon the solemn 
assertions of experienced anglers? This attitude 
of chronic unbelief concerning the testimony of 
honest men is unbecoming. We have heard many 
fish stories during the summer, all of them true. 
We have even heard varying accounts of the same 
incident and have believed them all. That comes 
from possessing a trustful spirit. A gentleman 
told us of seeing a string of five fine bass and some 
fifteen or twenty sunfish and perch caught by a 
cottager who came over from an adjoining lake. 
The next day another gentleman gave an account 
of the same catch and the number of bass had 
increased to twenty-five. On the third day, as 
vouched for by another gentleman, there were one 
hundred bass in that string and they averaged 
between four and six pounds. Now some suspi- 
cious individuals would scoff at the apparent dis- 
crepancies, but it is easy to reconcile the different 
statements. The first gentleman may have seen 
the catch early in the day and the other accounts 
may have been based upon later accumulations. 



AMONG THE NORTHERN PINES 93 

Among the most untiring fishermen met this 
summer were a father and son who chased the 
great northern pike with a zeal worthy of such a 
cause. One day the father informed me that they 
had caught a pike weighing fifteen pounds the day 
before. Soon after the son gave his version of the 
capture and said the fish weighed eighteen pounds. 
But why cavil? Are we to make no allowance 
for youthful imagination? Is a little matter of 
three pounds to be allowed to spoil a good fish 
story ? 

The writer ventures to record these experiences 
because they are not his own. Possibly he may be 
allowed to set down one other incident, inasmuch 
as it does not concern him personally : On the 
shore of the lake — the precise location was not 
given — once lived a farmer who owned a dog 
famed for exceptional intelligence. It occurred to 
the farmer that, as the dog loved the water and 
seemed interested in the fishing excursions which 
they took together, it might be possible to utilize 
the canine ability to practical ends. Fastening a 
trolling line to the dog's tail, he took him out upon 
the lake, threw him overboard and rowed rapidly 
to shore. Of course, the dog swam after the boat 
and had not gone far before he hooked on to a 
good-sized bass which he dragged after him to the 
land. The owner praised the dog and continued 
his training until the beast had become a proficient 
troller, entering into the sport with eagerness and 



94 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

zest. If the master failed to set him to work for 
a day or so the dog would bring the trolling line in 
his mouth and plead — as well as a dumb animal 
can — to be allowed to go fishing. If he caught a 
bass he would give two barks to announce the 
capture, and if a pike three barks, except in the case 
of an exceptionally large one, in which case he 
barked from the time the fish struck until he had 
landed it. If he had the misfortune to hook a 
rock-bass or a perch he would sneak down the 
shore to some unfrequented spot and there gnaw 
the intruder off the hook and then go back to work 
again. Would that we could record a long life for 
this most wonderful animal, but, alas ! he came to 
an untimely end. When but four years of age, in 
the fulness of his powers, he begged to go fishing 
one lowering day. Soon after he had begun troll- 
ing up and down the shore the master heard his 
bark of victory and, as it was continued, knew that 
he had hooked a large fish. The barks soon took 
on a note of anxiety, gradually merging into fear. 
Rushing down to the shore the horrified farmer 
was just in time to see the dog being rapidly drawn 
backward despite his most heroic efforts. A mo- 
ment later and a great pair of jaws opened and 
enveloped both dog and bark. When, now and 
then, on cloudy days, a sound comes across the 
water that somewhat resembles a bark, the resi- 
dents say to each other, " There is the big pike 
that swallowed Perkins' dog." (The writer 



AMONG THE NORTHERN PINES 95 

hastens to say that he did not see the dog nor the 
pike nor even the bark.) 

By this time some reader may be interested to 
know where the lake is located about which we 
are writing. A journey of two hundred miles 
almost due north from Minneapolis brings the 
traveller to Park Rapids, a live and growing town 
on the Great Northern Railroad. One may not 
travel far in any direction from this town without 
coming across a lake. Three miles to the east is 
Long Lake, some nine miles in length with an 
average width of about three-fourths of a mile. 
It is a beautiful sheet of water, spring-fed, blue, 
with sandy beaches and broken, wooded shores. 
Here among the pines is the cottage where we 
spent a delightful outing. 

Unless all signs fail, this section is soon to 
become the favourite playground of the Mississippi 
Valley. It has almost innumerable attractive lakes, 
the fragrant pines are everywhere, the air is pure 
and invigorating, the fishing is varied and first- 
class. Twenty-four miles from Park Rapids is 
Lake Itasca, whose fame has gone abroad, for it 
is here that the mighty Mississippi has its source. 
It lies within the state park, which includes thirty- 
six thousand acres of land, and here are found 
magnificent specimens of the great Norway pine, 
once so common over all this country. The super- 
intendent of the park is given the privilege of con- 
ducting a summer resort on the shores of Lake 



96 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

Itasca, and the central lodge and adjoining cot- 
tages, all built of pine logs, are very attractive. An 
automobile trip on an ideal day gave an opportunity 
for visiting this interesting place. We wondered, 
as we approached the lodge, at seeing the boarders 
playing tennis and pitching quoits when ten rods 
away was the lake and fishing. But more intimate 
acquaintance with the lake dispelled the wonder. 
The shoreline is timbered and beautiful, but the 
water looks dead, and not a sand beach is to be 
seen. 

It is now all in the past except the memory. 
That will abide. The last afternoon of our stay 
w r e rowed across the lake and picked a gunny- 
sack full of hazel nuts, took a swim in the lake, and 
then built a fire on the shore over which we roasted 
the delicious sweetcorn, took our supper in the 
open, and rowed home as the shadows deepened 
and the crescent moon hung low in the western 
sky. We shall often recall the sunny days and 
peace-filled nights, the glory of the sunsets and the 
enticement of the beautiful lake. Possibly we 
shall feel, at times, the tingle generated by the big 
bass or the ten-inch trout. Certainly we shall live 
over again the picnics in the pine woods and the 
days spent in the boat voyaging in search of the 
wary bass. 



IN 

THE LAND 

OF NOD 





VIII 



IN THE LAND OF NOD 




T was on the Steamer " Empress," 
plying between Point du Chene 
and Summerside, that the 
Preacher said to his small son, 
" Yonder is the land." The boy 
gazed intently for a moment and 
then solemnly remarked, " That's the Land of 
Nod." Great chap, that boy! for to his many other 
accomplishments he added in that hour the gift of 
prophecy. It is the Land of Nod, for every one you 
meet on Prince Edward Island gives you a friendly 
nod, and after you have been there a few hours 
all tendency to pursue the strenuous life departs, 
and the summit of earthly bliss is found in sitting 
under the shade of an apple tree and nodding at 
nothing. 

Frankness demands a confession; namely, the 
Preacher went to Prince Edward Island to loaf. 

99 



100 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

He was not in search of a divinity school, or a 
summer assembly, or a wealthy church paying fifty 
dollars per Sunday for supplies. He sought a spot 
where committee meetings and mosquitoes and dust 
and noise are unknown; where he could have un- 
limited supplies of fresh vegetables, milk, cream, 
johnny-cake and cornmeal mush; where he could 
tickle his lungs with the breath of the sea, and, 
above all, where the trout hold a reception every 
day in the week — except Sunday. Do I hear 
some dyspeptic, pessimistic preacher saying, 
"There isn't any such place?" Skepticism is 
not strange in one whose cup of bliss runs 
over when he finds a place where two cot- 
tages are built on a forty-foot lot and where 
he can plunge into the wild dissipation of croquet. 
Few good trout streams flow past the front door 
of a summer hotel. It is necessary, as a rule, even 
on Prince Edward Island, to journey beyond the 
dooryard before coming to the favourite haunts of 
that festive fish. The walking is good? Yes, but 
the Preacher found a way that beats walking all 
to death. Have a man at the hotel where you are 
stopping, who keeps his own team and coachman; 
who counts that day lost in which he catches no 
trout; who is intelligent, genial, unselfish; who in- 
vites you daily to share his buggy in trips to 
streams that swarm with fish. Such a man there 
is (so far as the writer knows there is but one on 
the North American continent), and the Preacher 



IN THE LAND OF NOD 101 

found him. Do I hear pathetic cries from my 
brother preachers piscatorially inclined, asking, 
"What's his name?" "Where does he live?" 
S-s-h ! my dear brethren. He is pre-empted by the 
writer, and to protect you from any temptation to 
trespass, we'll just call him the Judge. Only the 
writer's unimpeachable veracity as a teller of fish 
stories will save him from mild suspicion when he 
makes the following statement : The Judge, who 
knew every pool for ten miles around where the 
big trout rendezvous, insisted that the Preacher 
should have first chance at these fascinating spots. 
Don't believe it? Well, no one can blame you for 
your skepticism, for in the annals of fishermen 
from the days of Izaak Walton until now, no other 
such example of self-abnegation is to be found. 

It was on a Monday morning that the Judge and 
the Preacher made their first descent upon the un- 
suspecting trout. The point of attack was on a 
tidal stream known as Tryon Creek. Some of the 
writer's friends have grinned derisively when he 
has told them of the " sea-trout" of Prince Edward 
Island, and one listener opined that " weak-fish " 
were probably meant. Of course there are always 
a few people around who enjoy the rare delights 
of omniscience, and it is useless to offer informa- 
tion to such. But for the benefit of the uninformed 
and open-minded let it be said that in every tidal 
stream on the south shore of Prince Edward Island, 
the well-known, square-tailed, speckled trout are 



102 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

found. They run up with the tide and, while many 
go back as the tide ebbs, a few remain in the pools. 
It was in pursuit of these sea-trout that we sallied 
forth on this Monday morning. The tide was full 
when we reached the stream, the sun shone from 
an unclouded sky, the wind had gone to sleep, and 
the rank marsh grass hid innumerable pit- falls. 
Picking our way along we cast industriously, in the 
middle of the stream, near the right bank, near the 
left bank, up stream, down stream — and not the 
suspicion of a response. Just to break the monotony 
the Preacher stepped into a bog-hole and disap- 
peared, temporarily, from view. In response to 
the Judge's anxious query, " Where are you ? " a 
smothered voice from the vicinity of the grass- 
roots answered, " I'm right here." That ended 
the marsh fishing for that day, and the disgusted 
pair wended their way to a pool at the head of 
tide-water, where their labour was not in vain. 
A little after the noon. hour the Judge said, 

" Now we'll go up to Mr. 's and get some 

lunch." If there is any home on the south shore 
of Prince Edward Island where the Judge has not 
a hearty welcome waiting for him we did not find 
it. Under a tent on the lawn we sat at ease, 
while the hospitable hostess brought forth great 
dishes of luscious strawberries, pitchers of cream, 
delicious bread and butter, and then mourned be- 
cause we would not go into the house and have 
something to eat. It was with that at-peace-with- 



IN THE LAND OF NOD 103 

all-the-world feeling, which is begotten of straw- 
berries and cream, that we turned our faces once 
more towards Tryon Creek. The Judge said, 
" Let's try the pond." Now fishing from the shore 
of a pond is torture to the sensitive soul of a true 
sportsman, so it came to pass that no sooner did 
we behold a canoe tied to the bank than prepara- 
tions were made for a voyage of discovery. We 
discovered, all right. The Judge is a man of 
parts, and his fishing weight is about 250 pounds. 
He perched himself on the deck at one end of the 
canoe and invited the Preacher to balance him on 
the other. The proposition seemed to admit of 
debate, but the Preacher — accustomed to doing as 
he is told — clambered into the place assigned him. 
Then a kind friend pushed off the canoe and — 
never mind the particulars, but we know by ac- 
curate measurement that the water at that point 
reaches exactly from the Judge's hips to his arm- 
pits when he is in a sitting posture. The canoe 
being righted the Judge insisted that the Preacher 
should enjoy it alone while he would skirmish along 
the shore. This arrangement resulted satisfactorily 
to all parties — unless we may except the trout — 
and long before sundown, the creels were filled and 
the horse's head was turned towards home. . 

The writer has too much consideration for the 
feelings of his readers to undertake a detailed ac- 
count of all the fishing experiences of a six weeks' 
vacation, but he is not to be choked off until he has 



104 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

hinted at some of the things missed by those who 
were not there. Dixon's Mill ! How the nerves 
of the right arm tingle just at the writing of those 
two words! It was thereabouts that some of the 
greatest days of the summer were spent, for the 
pond above the mill and the pool below furnished 
unfailing supplies of noble trout. The pond was 
bordered on one side by a steep hill, clothed from 
water's edge to summit with sombre fir. On the 
other side were the miller's garden and the meadow. 
One afternoon the Judge paddled the Preacher 
about this pond while the latter industriously 
whipped the water with his flies. A more respon- 
sive congregation that Preacher never had. They 
slept not nor slumbered, but were up and coming 
from introduction to " finally." Twenty-three 
trout, filling a fifteen-pound creel, were the fruits 
of his joyous toil. Then, just as the sun had gone 
down behind the fir trees and the night shadows 
began to thicken, we addressed ourselves to the 
waiting throng below the mill. There were quick 
and constant responses, but they did not count in 
comparison with the swirl made by one old veteran 
as he lunged at and missed the fly. Quickly the fly 
was recovered and cast again, and still again, for 
many a time. Had he been pricked ? Had he seen 
his enemy even in the dim twilight ? No, for here 
he is again, and this time his aim is sure. Back 
and forth he rushes, the light rod bending in perfect 
harmony to his movements, until the lusty foeman 



IN THE LAND OF NOD 105 

has made his last run and lies exhausted in the net. 
He is fresh from the sea, beautiful as a dream, 
the perfection of form and colouring. 

It was on Dixon's Pond that the Junior hooked 
his first fish. Don't blame him for neglected op- 
portunities, for he was not quite three years old 
and this was his first chance. It was where an ice- 
cold stream comes tumbling from the hillside into 
the pond, and a kindly fate had decreed that a fir 
tree should fall at just this spot. What a combi- 
nation ! No wonder that this was a favourite tryst- 
ing place for big trout ! But it had its disad- 
vantages, as any one will recognize who has under- 
taken to direct the movements of a trout that has 
a hook in its mouth and a tree-top handy. The 
Junior hooked a lusty fellow and, with some aid 
from the Senior, managed to get him to the top 
of the water, and then there was a lashing and a 
splashing that caused the small boy to open his 
eyes in astonishment. Another instant and the 
commotion was at an end, the trout was gone — and 
the hook left fondly clinging to a submerged limb. 
Silence — and then the Junior remarked philo- 
sophically, " That fish spread his wings and flew 
away." Let no one fancy that the young man 
accepted defeat as his portion, for a little later he 
captured, by his own unaided prowess, two trout 
that must have weighed, together, at least four 
ounces. These were carefully wrapped in paper 
and formed a portion of his next morning's meal. 



106 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

We submit that a well-trained Preacheress 
should spend the summer vacation sitting on the 
hotel piazza busy with her " tatting." (Don't read 
that " tattling," please.) But there is at least one 
of this honoured class who, at certain intervals, 
abjures fancy work and insists upon going fishing. 
This aforesaid assistant pastor and her young 
daughter did, upon a certain day in August, with 
malice aforethought, sit on the logs at Ive's Mill 
and most wilfully and maliciously deceive some 
forty innocent and confiding trout. Then, when 
the slaughter was done for that afternoon, these 
two, with the Senior and the Junior, the Judge 
and two young friends, sat on the grass by the sing- 
ing brook, just where some great trees cast their 
shadows, and regaled themselves with the lunch so 
kindly provided by our hostess. 

One day the Preacher was left to himself. The 
Judge was away on business, the Preacheress felt 
no stir of ambition towards piscatorial conquests, 
and the desolate man was compelled by force of 
circumstances to go it alone. That was the day 
when he discovered the unexpected resources of 
Matheson's Bridge. This bridge spans the stream 
at the head of Dixon's Pond. It is not a public 
highway and is used only by the owner of the 
farm. The water has worn down the bed of the 
stream until there is a depth of some four feet, 
and it occurred to the Preacher that here was a 
likely place for good-sized trout. Warily he ap- 



IN THE LAND OF NOD 107 

proached and cast from the upper side, letting his 
lure float down under the bridge and then gently 
drawing" it up the stream. The next instant he 
knew that his intuitions had not deceived him. A 
struggle, and then a glorious trout lay glistening 
in the sunshine. The farmer, who was waging a 
war of extermination against potato bugs on a 
neighbouring hillside, came down and lent his 
countenance to the stranger poaching on his pre- 
serves. To make it short, from under that bridge 
that afternoon came twelve trout that weighed not 
less than ten pounds. 

One more experience must be told. The Judge, 
the Preacher and the Southerner had gone up the 
de Sable River at high tide in a dory. Their theory 
was that after fishing around Dixon's Mill they 
would float back on the receding tide. The theory 
as to the fishing and the receding of the tide 
proved trustworthy; but the floating was a delu- 
sion. The fact is, they fished too long, the tide 
had gone out, and the dory would float only as it 
was dragged. The Southerner declared that he 
was incapacitated for violent physical exertion, and 
furnished his share of the necessary toil in the 
shape of large chunks of advice. As a self-acting 
dispenser of gratuitous counsel he was immense. 
Behold the Judge at one end of the boat and the 
Preacher at the other, shoes and stockings off, 
trousers rolled above the knees, tugging and strain- 
ing at that heavy boat to induce it to float in three 



108 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

inches of water! When they were fairly stuck 
fast and it looked as if the boat could never be 
stirred again until floated by the next tide, the re- 
proving voice of the passenger would be heard 
assuring the perspiring propellers that it was all 
their own fault; that if they had kept a little this 
way or to that side, all would have been well. As 
they listened, the wonder grew in their minds that 
Job ever allowed the friends who visited him in the 
capacity of an advisory committee to escape with 
their lives. But it takes more than a heavy dory 
and an unappreciative passenger to discourage men 
who are firm believers in the perseverance of the 
saints, and the Judge and the Preacher hauled their 
burden through a mile of mud and water, and live 
to tell the tale. 

Fair Prince Edward Island! Across the years 
the Preacher sees your smiling fields and sober 
woods and hears the beat of the surf and the tinkle 
of silver streams. Land of trout! Land of peace! 
Land of Nod ! 



ON 

BOTH 

COASTS 





IX 



ON BOTH COASTS 




S an old proverb goes, " It is the 
unexpected that happens." This 
ancient saw, seemed to find illus- 
tration when some one called out, 
as we were sitting at breakfast, 
" Come out and see this big 
trout ! " We were on the St. Johns River and the 
steamer had tied up at a landing to take on wood. 
A trout in Florida ! Somehow that experience had 
not been among our anticipations when we planned 
the trip ; but why should not the unexpected happen 
in Florida as well as elsewhere? Knowing that it 
is never safe to be too skeptical concerning any 
statement which concerns fishing or fish, we joined 
the company of investigators. On the pier was a 
lad of fourteen or fifteen, holding up for inspection 
a fish that was, indeed, big, but to northern eyes 
gave no indications of being a trout. It was a 

ill 



112 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

giant " big-mouth " bass, and the lad's assertion 
that it weighed twelve pounds seemed quite prob- 
able. It seems ridiculous to call the handsome 
speckled denizens of clear, mountain streams, and 
the brown, ugly frequenter of the muddy St. Johns 
by the same name, but there is no law forbidding 
such trespass. When we reach the coast we find 
the weakfish has also been transformed into a trout. 
The " dead rivers " that abound along the St. 
Johns are well named, although they are not rivers 
at all, but bayous. They have no perceptible 
current, and the stagnant water furnishes a most 
satisfactory habitat for alligators. One day, when 
we had committed ourselves to the care of a negro 
boatman, we spent a forenoon in one of these dead 
rivers, catching an occasional bass and shooting 
curlew and fox squirrels. Passing a tree-top that 
had fallen into the water, the boatman told us that 
he had seen a number of little 'gators drop into 
the water as we approached, and said that he would 
catch us some if we wished. Rowing quietly up 
to the tree-top, he watched the surface of the water 
for a little time and then, making a quick grab, 
held up a little wriggling alligator some eight or 
ten inches long. This was repeated until he had 
captured five, and we informed him that these were 
all we could use to advantage. It is said that the 
relentless warfare waged against the alligator by 
tourists and native hunters who covet his hide has 
made him a rarity, at least along the lines of travel, 



ON BOTH COASTS US 

but twenty-five years ago, no one who* visited 
Florida need fail of a sight of this ugly saurian. 
Coming home in the afternoon of the day spent 
with the negro boatman, our attention was called 
to the swaying of the marsh grass not far distant, 
and the negro informed us that it was caused, he 
thought, by an alligator. With guns at cock and 
all ready to open a fusillade on the first appearance 
of the game, a cautious approach was made until 
we were alongside the grass. Then, as we were 
standing in the boat, peering this way and that in 
an effort to spy our victim, there was an unexpected 
rush, the boat was given a whack that almost 
caused the hunters to fall overboard, and we had 
a fleeting glimpse of our quarry as he disappeared 
in the waters of the river. The performance was 
so unexpected and so soon over that not a shot 
was fired. 

For many years the Indian River country has 
been a prime favourite with those who visit Florida. 
The so-called river is really a long, narrow arm of 
the sea, and at some points, a walk of five minutes 
brings one from the river to the ocean. The soil 
along this river is exceedingly fertile, and some of 
the finest orange groves in the state are found at 
Rock Ledge and farther south. This body of 
water furnishes ideal conditions for sailing, hunt- 
ing and fishing, and nothing can be more delightful 
than a cruise of a few days with congenial com- 
panions. We hired a sharpie, a flat-bottomed sail- 



114 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

boat of such light draft that it is commonly said of 
it that it " will sail in a dew," and with a generous 
supply of oranges on board set off from Rock 
Ledge towards the south. Some fishing, some 
duck-shooting, much idling and orange eating, 
served to make the days pass like a happy dream. 
When night came it was not difficult to find some 
winter-hotel with comfortable accommodations. 
Not infrequently night had fallen before we 
reached the desired haven, and the water would 
turn to silver as the mullet darted here and there 
before the slow-moving boat. 

One day we anchored at the mouth of the Banana 
River, that members of the party who had never 
seen the ocean, might walk across the narrow spit 
of land that separates between the river and the 
Atlantic. One of the company, to whom the sea 
was no novelty, elected to remain on board, moved 
to this decision, in part at least, by the fact that he 
had secured some bait the night before that as yet 
he had been unable to use. Left to himself, he 
began operations at once, and soon landed a seven- 
pound channel bass. This seemed pretty good to 
the lone fisherman, but he had no sooner put on a 
fresh piece of mullet and thrown out than another 
tug at his line assured him that " the best is yet 
to be." Despite the angler's most skilful manipu- 
lations that fish had its own way at first. It went 
down, down, until the anxious fisherman saw that 
the line remaining on the reel must be measured 



ON BOTH COASTS 1,15 

by inches. Then it decided upon a reversal, and 
came up so rapidly that only by reeling madly was 
the line kept taut. After that the fish took a notion 
to circumnavigate the boat, which he proceeded to 
do in spite of protests from the fisherman. When 
one is fishing from a row-boat with anchor safely 
stowed away in the bow, there can be no serious 
objections urged if the fish decides to describe a 
circle about the boat; but on a sail-boat at anchor, 
the case is radically different. It is not easy to 
manipulate your rod successfully under the anchor 
rope, crawl under the boom, keep clear of the 
rudder, and never, for a second, give the fish the 
least slack line. One such experience is more than 
enough, and when that fish repeated the perform- 
ance three times he almost exhausted the fisher- 
man's patience. But all things have an end, even 
the antics of a fish that objects to being caught, 
and at last the sturdy fighter began to grow amen- 
able to discipline. Slowly, line was reeled in and, 
after many flurries and plunges, he was landed 
safely in the boat. Natives assured the captor that 
eighteen pounds was not very large for a channel 
bass; but even their efforts to minimize the im- 
portance of the event did not entirely destroy the 
angler's satisfaction. 

If there is a more uninteresting ride anywhere 
than that from Palatka to Charlotte Harbour, we do 
not care to find it. Scrub palmetto, pines, sand, 
and then sand, pines and scrub palmetto, until the 



116 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

traveller almost wishes the engine would jump the 
track or bandits hold up the train to break the 
deadly monotony. After all, that day is a red- 
letter one, for during it the writer made a friend. 
At noon, the train stopped near a lonely building 
in the pine woods to allow the passengers to dine. 
Other bills of fare may be forgotten, but the menu 
that noon is imperishably engraved on the tablets 
of memory. Who would not remember a meal 
consisting of saleratus biscuits — with strong em- 
phasis upon the saleratus — " sides " of pork and 
sweet potato pie ? It is conceivable that even these 
may be palatable when well cooked, but the ma- 
terials used that day had evidently had no fair 
chance to reveal their excellence when skilfully 
treated. 

Among the passengers was a tall, somewhat 
gaunt man, with long, brown hair and a straggling- 
beard just showing a hint of grey. The face was 
rugged but kindly, and the eyes deep-set. One 
felt, instinctively, that here was a man of power 
and goodness whom it would be a privilege to 
know, and when a chance remark made by him to 
the traveller from the north gave an excuse for 
further conversation it was eagerly seized upon. 
It was not until the train was approaching Char- 
lotte Harbour that we learned the name of our 
travelling companion, a name familiar, then and 
now, the world over, among those who look and 
long for a better day for man — Edward Everett 



ON BOTH COASTS 117 

Hale. His destination was the same as our own — 
Pine Island — where we spent three delightful 
weeks, the greatest pleasure of which was his 
companionship. After we had been at the little 
hotel on Pine Island two or three days, the pro- 
prietor approached the writer with something of 
unusual timidity in his manner, and ventured the 
information that Doctor Hale would preach in the 
school house the next Sunday. " Would you dare 
to assist in the service ? " he hesitatingly asked. 
"Dare to take part in the service? Why not? 
What danger would there be ? " " But you know 
he is a Unitarian, and I understand you are a 
Baptist. I didn't know but some one would make 
trouble for you if they should hear that you had 
joined in a service with a Unitarian," said the 
kind-hearted landlord. When assured that we 
were quite ready to run the risk, he went out with 
beaming face to tack up his notices. Among many 
sermons heard from many preachers, good, bad 
and indifferent, the outline of Doctor Hale's sermon 
on that Sunday morning, in the little school house, 
is the only one that refuses to be forgotten. He 
chose for treatment the story of the rich young 
man who came to Jesus asking what he should do 
to gain eternal life, and gave his interpretation of 
the true life. In a quiet, conversational manner, 
he set forth his conception of the ideal for the 
individual and for society as living " with God, for 
man, in heaven." The points were driven home by 



118 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

the use of homely but telling illustrations, and, 
after the passing of many years, one, at least, of 
those who listened that day, feels the glow and 
thrill begotten of this fine setting forth of the 
possibilities in manhood. 

One of the most vivid pictures of Doctor Hale 
which those days furnished is, as he stands on the 
government pier at Sanibel Island fishing for 
sheepshead. He wore a long, linen duster, used a 
cane-pole without a reel, and the fish that came to 
his hook were usually made to describe the arc of a 
circle, landing with a resounding thump on the 
pier. After fishing had ceased to be attractive, 
owing to the undue eagerness of the sheepshead 
to be caught, the party wandered across the island 
to the outer shore where the waters of the Gulf of 
Mexico came tumbling in upon the beach, and 
shells were numerous and beautiful. On the way 
one bought a fine specimen of the saw of a saw- 
fish from the Cuban fisherman, and another shot 
a diamond-back rattlesnake which lay coiled in the 
path. We were becalmed that night on the sail 
home, and Doctor Hale's varied experiences were 
drawn upon to alleviate the monotony of the long 
wait for a favourable wind. 

The rattlers were treated with the utmost re- 
spect by all the guests after a resident physician 
had told us that in an experience of more than 
twenty years in southern Florida he had never 
known any one to survive the bite of a diamond- 



ON BOTH COASTS 119 

back rattlesnake. When one of the visitors would 
go up the island after deer he preferred to mount 
a pony and undertake to shoot from its back rather 
than to trudge through the dense undergrowth 
when any step might bring him within striking 
distance of this dreaded reptile. When a gentle- 
man from Boston related an experience which he 
had two years before at the very point where the 
hotel had since been built, the reluctance on the 
part of the visitors to come into close quarters 
with Florida rattlers sensibly increased. He was 
one of a party of four who were cruising along 
the gulf coast in a sharpie. They landed at the 
foot of Pine Island, and two of the party started 
up the island after deer. They walked about a 
hundred yards apart, and had not gone far when 
one heard his companion's gun go off and called 
out asking what he had shot. Getting no reply, 
he hastened to his friend, whom he found on the 
ground and by him a rattlesnake which he had 
shot. The snake had struck him in the calf of the 
leg, and in spite of everything that could be done, 
the man died before night. 

The first visit of a northerner to this section is 
certain to be filled with novel experiences. Never 
before has he seen oysters growing on trees, but 
here, at low tide, this phenomenon may be observed 
at any time. The so-called " coon " oysters attach 
themselves to the boughs which droop over and into 
the water at high tide, and when the tide has gone 



120 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

out they are left hanging in great masses, high, if 
not dry. The little fiddler crabs, swarming by 
thousands in the sand of the beach, waving their 
single arm frantically in the air, were an unfailing 
source of amusement. Pelicans abounded, and a 
part of the day's program was to feed mullet to the 
two tame ones which made their headquarters on 
the pier. Through long practice and because of the 
capacious bag which they carry, they could catch, 
with almost unfailing accuracy, every fish pitched 
in their direction. Every day some of the visitors 
fished from the pier for sharks. Probably this 
sport has its fascination for those who enjoy that 
sort of thing, but when it is considered that from 
this same pier one might catch many varieties of 
excellent food fish, the passion for shark fishing 
becomes an impenetrable mystery. 

Probably no one who fishes at all can withstand 
the temptation to try his hand at tarpon when visit- 
ing the Gulf of Mexico waters. One hears such 
stories of the gaminess of this fish, of the fight, 
prolonged through many hours, at times, which is 
necessary to land it, that he soon contracts the 
tarpon fever. In spite of a certain reluctance to 
go in pursuit of fish which are good for nothing 
when caught, fish that have never injured us and 
against which we hold no malice, a sunny morning 
saw the writer and a boatman starting out for 
tarpon. We anchored at a favourable point, the 
hook was baited with half a mullet, tied on as well 



ON BOTH COASTS 121 

as hooked, and then came the wait. It was not 
long, for in less than half an hour the fisherman 
announced to his oarsman, " I feel something." 
" Let him have it," urged the boatman, for one 
secret of successful fishing for tarpon is to give the 
fish plenty of time to gorge the bait. After what 
seemed to be an interminable time the oarsman 
said, " Now strike him." And strike him we did, 
with the most astonishing result. No sooner had 
the fisherman struck, than a mountain of burnished 
silver flung itself out of the water. The oarsman 
said it was a tarpon of average size; but to the 
fisherman he looked to be fifty feet long and to 
weigh a ton. Just how large he was will never be 
known, for with vicious shakes of his head he 
flung the baited hook at least fifteen feet away. 
Disappointed? Not especially. Fortunately we 
had never really felt that our happiness depended 
upon catching a tarpon. 



ON 

MOOSEHEAD 

LAKE 








X 



ON MOOSEHEAD LAKE 




E want a quiet place, free from 
eludes and mosquitoes, with good 
food and good fishing." Thus 
spoke the tired city man to his 
friend, the Preacher, and the 
friend answered, " I have heard 
of such a haven of rest, far in the east, on the 
shores of Moosehead Lake." So it came to pass 
that we — Nell, little Sue and I — made the long 
journey of 1,500 miles on the strength of a hear- 
say. Risky? Yes, but the results amply justified 
our faith. We found the Peaceful Valley and the 
House of Rest. 

Picture to yourself a long, rambling structure, 
designed according to no known law save that of 
utility. Additions have been made from time to 
time to the original farm-house, resulting in a 
delightfully unconventional and straggly building; 

125 



126 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

an illustration in wood of the law of evolution. 
Great barns stand guard on the east and south. 
Hard by, a cold brook gurgles and laughs on its 
way to the lake a few rods distant. Take your 
stand facing the west, and declare your vision. 
Fifteen miles away, on the western border of the 
lake, Squaw Mountain lifts its ragged line against 
the sky. On the left, and close at hand, bold hills 
bound the view, clothed with timber to their very 
tips. Far to the north, Spencer Bay Mountain lies 
like a giant haystack. The waters of the lake 
dimple and flash in the sunlight, the air is filled 
with the drowsy hum of insects, and over all is 
peace. In the words of the ancient hymn, one 
sings, 

" This is the place I long have sought 
And mourned because I found it not." 

Now that we are here, what shall we do ? Rest ? 
Yes, but it cannot be the rest of inactivity. The 
woods are calling to us and the waters tempt us. 
The trout are jumping in the pool just beyond the 
big stump, and a deer is feeding in the meadow 
yonder. Great herons fly lazily along the shores 
of the bay, or go on frog-hunting expeditions 
among the rushes. Surely, there is something 
better to do than to loll on the porch, and the first 
important task is to interview those impertinent 
trout. Leaders are brought out and soaked, flies 
selected, the Leonard rod jointed and everything 





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ON MOOSEHEAD LAKE 127 

made ready. We start for the brook which seems 
to be murmuring an invitation, only to run against 
a very formidable obstacle in the shape of the 
Maine game law. " All streams flowing into 
Moosehead Lake are closed indefinitely." Only 
nine words gently spoken by the landlord, but they 
were of tremendous significance. A journey half- 
way across the continent to fish streams that cannot 
be fished. The arm of the fisherman is palsied, 
and his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. 
Is this the end of all his bright visions? A dark- 
ness like that of Egypt settles down upon him, and 
all joy flees from his heart. Silently he anathema- 
tizes the railroad companies for failing to find 
space in their attractive circulars for this important 
piece of information. But just when his gloom is 
deepest, a ray of light appears. " Do you see 
that red post ? " says the landlord, pointing down 
the stream. " That marks the boundary between 
the brook and the lake. Below it you can fish to 
your heart's content." 

Really, it was not as bad as might be supposed. 
Fish love the mouth of a stream, and this mouth 
was of generous proportions and largely patronized 
by the trout. Many a happy hour we spent on that 
stretch of water below the post. Possibly, in the 
eagerness of pursuit, the fly sometimes fell over 
the line into the forbidden waters; but it is not easy 
to determine the exact location of an invisible 
boundary, and the trout had no business to gather 



128 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

in town-meeting just over the line and wink de- 
risively at the irritated fisherman. But, on the 
whole, we sought to obey the law; not alone from 
respect for the law, mingled with fear of the game- 
warden, but, as well, because the best fishing was 
below the post. Here was a half-mile of water 
frequented by many noble trout. We will say 
nothing of the many ordinary trout taken from 
this stretch of stream, but the story of the fisher- 
man's experience with one wary old grandpa of 
the Salvelinus Fontinalis family must be told. 

He lived in a deep pool bordered by rushes, 
where a sunken tree-top afforded an excellent hid- 
ing-place. Many smaller trout had been lured 
from this retreat before the patriarch gave any 
sign of his presence. One day a huge swirl and a 
heavy tug set the angler's nerves to tingling; but 
the line came back limp, and the disappointed dis- 
ciple of the immortal Izaak went to the house to 
tell of the four-pound trout that he had hooked 
and lost. A week passed, during which time the 
hopeful fisherman whipped every inch of that water 
many times, taking not a few, but hearing nothing 
from the veteran for whom he longed. Then, 
moved by hunger or contempt, or both, the old 
fellow snapped at a " Montreal," and the battle 
was on. When victory for the fisherman seemed 
certain and the landing net was almost under the 
tired fish, he gave a mighty surge and was gone. 
This time he weighed a plump five pounds on the 



ON MOOSEHEAD LAKE 129 

scales of the angler's imagination. Other days 
passed, and then, one evening just as the sun was 
setting, a " Silver Doctor " overcame the wariness 
of the spotted warrior, and again the issue was 
joined between man and trout. The fish knew that 
there was safety in the sunken tree-top, and made 
heroic efforts to reach it; but the fisherman knew 
this also, and met every rush by giving the butt of 
the rod. The boarders on the hotel veranda saw 
the conflict and shouted encouragement to the 
anxious angler. Canoeists stopped at a respectful 
distance to watch the struggle. Nell was at the 
oars and kept the boat well out in the middle of 
the pool. The light rod bent almost double as the 
sturdy fighter made his great rushes for liberty. 
The reel buzzed as the fish carried out the line, or 
clicked gently as the fisherman worked the captive 
towards the boat. 

Any one of a great number of things may happen 
at such a time. The hook may tear out, slack line 
is fatal, the line may break, the snood or leader 
may part, the rod may give way, an earthquake 
may chance along; in short, there is no catastrophe 
which is not liable to occur when you have a big 
fish at the other end of a line. The worst of it is 
that all these possibilities visit the mind of the 
fisherman at once. There is one other possibility; 
namely, that you may land the fish. That is just 
what happened this time; and when he was fairly 
in the net that fisherman let forth a whoop which 



130 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

must have scared the foxes on Deer Island, three 
miles away. How much did he weigh? Such in- 
quisitiveness is really painful; but if you must 
know, the scales said two pounds, fourteen ounces. 
All fishermen will understand that a fish shrinks 
rapidly after being taken from the water, and it 
must have been at least ten minutes after his 
capture before he was weighed. This accounts for 
some things. 

Will some wise man rise up and explain the 
puzzling vagaries of the trout? Why does he 
strike freely at a certain fly one day, and entirely 
ignore it on the day following? Why will he sulk 
for hours, and then make the water boil with his 
acrobatic exercises? One morning, when all the 
signs were propitious, Mr. D. and the writer sought 
the mouth of South Brook, a place famous in all 
this region for the number and size of its trout. 
Mrs. N., a veteran angler and successful, was just 
leaving in deep disgust. She had been fishing since 
five o'clock and not a strike had rewarded her 
patient toil. One hour, two hours, we cast in vain. 
We might as well have been fishing in the Dead 
Sea so far as any signs of trout were concerned. 
Under the overhanging alders, by the side of old 
logs, up close to the bridge, down where the stream 
meets the bay, back and forth we went, but all in 
vain. At last, over by the big rock, a splash is 
heard and the widening ripples tell that a trout has 
jumped. Quietly we seek the spot. When some 



ON MOOSEHEAD LAKE 131 

forty feet away the flies are sent on their mission, 
and then follows an experience that cannot be put 
into words. For fifteen minutes the water fairly 
foams, as the eager fish leap for the fantastic cre- 
ations which are supposed to resemble different 
forms of insect life. The sport is fast and furious. 
Ten feet of line is as good as fifty, and a frayed 
fly is as acceptable as a fresh one. They seem to 
be fighting for the first chance at anything that is 
offered. Singles reward every cast, and doubles 
are not infrequent. Three of the number taken, 
go over a pound and a half each, and not one falls 
under half a pound. A quarter of an hour of this 
delirium, and then it is all over. We whip in vain 
for another hour, and turn towards the hotel, 
puzzled but happy. 

Only a little time have we been in the Peaceful 
Valley, when moose stories begin to circulate. The 
rumour goes that Mr. P., a camper, has seen a bull 
moose in the north meadow, and watched him feed 
for more than an hour. Louise, the dining-room 
girl, declares that she frequently sees a moose feed- 
ing in the " logan " when she rises about daybreak. 
(Will some etymologist settle the derivation of 
that word " logan " ? About Moosehead it seems 
to be applied to a bay of any sort or condition. Is 
it a corruption of " lagoon "?) The Higher Critic 
kindly calls attention to the evident unreliability of 
these stories. We know the habits of the moose. 
It is a shy animal, and seldom comes out into the 



132 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

open. If it should venture out it most certainly 
would not approach a summer hotel. Granting 
that some demented specimen might visit a clearing 
in which is a hotel, it would do so only under the 
protection of darkness. The stories are evidently 
mythical. Only a few days later the Higher Critic 
receives a distinct jar when he is awakened at early 
dawn one morning by a tapping at his door and 
hears a low voice saying, " There's a moose in the 
logan!" The shadows of night are not entirely 
gone, but it is light enough to see distinctly the 
dark object standing in the water and tearing at 
the lily-pads. A cow? Too large and too high at 
the shoulders. A horse ? No horse ever had such 
ears or such a head. Although the H. C. has never 
before seen a moose outside of a zoological garden, 
one glance convinces him that his theory is seri- 
ously damaged. 

A few days later, as the guests are eating their 
midday meal, the small boy rushes into the dining- 
room and shouts, " Moose in the logan! " In an 
incredibly short space of time the boarders have 
exchanged the dining-room for the garden fence, 
and are looking down upon such a sight as even 
dwellers in the Peaceful Valley seldom see. In the 
middle of the logan, and not more than forty rods 
away, stands a cow moose with her calf by her 
side. The mother plunges her muzzle into the 
water in search of food, lifts her head and munches 
for a time, and then repeats the process. All the 



ON MOOSEHEAD LAKE 133 

time the tail is switching at the flies, and the great 
ears are slowly moving back and forth. Neither 
mother nor child seems to pay any attention to 
the spectators, and both remain perfectly uncon- 
cerned until the small boy begins to whistle and 
shout. Then, without any signs of fear, they walk 
out of the water, trot slowly across the meadow and 
disappear in the woods. The H. C. sadly lays his 
theory away in the mausoleum where so many of 
its kindred rest. 

By this time some reader is saying, " I don't 
care anything about the moose, and less about the 
fishing. Didn't you go anywhere? Didn't you see 
anything worth writing about?" The rebuke is 
deserved, and the writer hastens to say that Moose- 
head Lake is forty miles long and fifteen miles 
across in the widest part, having an estimated shore- 
line of something like 400 miles. We saw it all, 
from Greenville to Southeast Carry; but he would 
be a brave man or a rash one, who would undertake 
to put its beauty into words. We drove to Roach 
River and, from the neighbouring hilltop, looked 
down upon the sparkling waters of Roach Pond 
and away across miles of forest to mighty 
Katahdin. We followed the old lumber roads into 
the depths of the wood, where the silence is broken 
only by the chatter of the red squirrel or the harsh 
cry of the bluejay. In the cool evenings we sat 
around the wood fire that crackled and leaped in 
the great open fireplace in the House of Rest, and 



134 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

heard the guides tell stories which would have made 
Baron Munchausen turn green with envy. We 
even went to Mountain Pond, six miles away, and 
all the way up hill. No wagon could make that trip 
and survive. The lazy man had a chronic dislike 
to walking six miles up hill on a hot August day, 
and, in a moment of forgetfulness, accepted the 
loan of a friend's horse. He had not been on a 
horse in fifteen years and had forgotten the ec- 
centric motions which that animal makes in scramb- 
ling over rocks and corduroy roads. However, he 
lived to reach Mountain Pond, and spent the night 
with three friends in an " A " tent. Don't ask 
about the fishing, for it is a subject upon which the 
writer does not care to dwell. The wind blew a 
gale every hour of the day spent on Mountain 
Pond, and you can safely write the sign of equation 
between the results of that day's toil and those 
secured by Peter and his companions engaged in a 
similar enterprise. 

That was a never-to-be-forgotten night. The 
wind roared incessantly among the trees, the tent 
shook and flapped, an obtrusive root insisted upon 
being familiar with our ribs, and, to complete the 
enjoyment, a. hedge-hog made us a call. That call 
afforded the one bit of comfort in an otherwise 
dreary night. To see the artist, in scanty attire, 
chasing that hedge-hog around the camp-fire at 
two o'clock in the morning was a sight to warm 
the cockles of the heart. To the artistic temper- 



ON MOOSEHEAD LAKE 135 

ament there was nothing attractive in slaughter, 
but if the well-armed marauder could be caught 
alive and taken down to the hotel, that would be 
worth while. Finally, a well-aimed blow stunned 
the animal and he was hastily thrust under an 
empty box with a sufficient number of stones piled 
upon it to prevent it from being overturned by any 
exertion on the part of the captive. When daylight 
came, the box was in its place, but the hedge-hog 
had gnawed his way to liberty. That we did not 
extract his teeth before imprisoning him was a fatal 
oversight. 



AMONG THE 

CUT-THROATS 

OF 

LAKE CHELAN 





XI 



AMONG THE CUT-THROATS OF 
LAKE CHELAN 




ON'T be frightened! The writer 
has not turned desperado, neither 
has he fallen among men of bloody 
practices. In order that all minds 
may be set at rest before we go 
further, be it known that this is 
but a fish story pure and simple. The brother with 
the melancholy mind and ossified piety will do well 
to stop here and turn to " Foxe's Book of Mar- 
tyrs " or some other literature of that order. The 
elect few who love the open, rejoice in God's out- 
of-doors and the beauty of lake and mountain, may 
safely venture to read this frivolous story of a side- 
trip made by one of the delegates to a church con- 
vention. 

What have cut-throats to do with fishing? 
Patience for a moment, you who live east of the 

139 



140 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

Mississippi ! The Pacific Coast dwellers will need 
no explanation, but for the benefit of the unenlight- 
ened it may be said that in common parlance the 
" Salmo Clarkii " is known as a " cut-throat." This 
appellation has nothing to do with the character of 
the fish, for he is an eminently respectable citizen 
of the watery world, but is due to the presence of 
a blood-red line on either side of his throat which 
by an extreme stretch of the imagination may be 
made to resemble a bloody cut. It is said that 
when he has access to salt water the cut-throat 
ranges far seaward, in which case he loses his 
black spots and takes on a coat of silver; but he 
still holds fast to his crimson necktie. 

Doubtless the next question will be, " Where 
is Lake Chelan?" If you are too indolent to 
look it up on the map of Washington, follow the 
trail of the fisherman. He took the Great North- 
ern road from Seattle, crossed the beautiful Cas- 
cade Mountains and left the train at Wenatchee. 
It is alleged in a multitude of highly coloured 
circulars that this is the " home of the big, red 
apple." A trustful habit of mind makes us ready 
to believe this, although the aforesaid big, red 
apple was not at home when we were there. He 
is expected to return in the fall. There are 
orchards and orchards, and then more orchards. 

An enthusiastic friend had pictured the beauties 
of the Columbia River Valley, and when we took the 
boat at Wenatchee for a forty-mile ride up-stream, 



AMONG THE CUT-THROATS 141 

anticipation stood on tip-toe. To be sure, aside 
from the orchards there was nothing attractive 
in the country around Wenatchee, but we felt sure 
that it would be " better farther on." But it 
wasn't. Possibly our aesthetic sense had suffered 
from a stroke of paralysis; if not, a muddy river, 
sage brush and alkali dust, brown, treeless hills 
and a general air of desolation do not combine 
to form an entrancing picture. To be sure, there 
are spots of green where fruit-trees have been 
planted and water from the river or from some 
irrigation ditch is led in and out through the 
orchard. But to one who has seen the beauty of 
an eastern landscape, before whose eyes comes a 
vision of stately trees and luxuriant meadows and 
babbling brooks of clear, cold water, those little 
dabs of green in the midst of wide stretches of 
dreariness awaken pity and not admiration. There 
is nothing either in the accommodations on the boat 
or in the scenery to make the traveller long to 
repeat his ride from Wenatchee to Chelan Falls. 
It is said to be four miles from Chelan Falls, 
on the Columbia River, to the foot of Lake Chelan. 
We believe it, and would just as readily believe 
that it is ten miles. The fact is that the miles 
are perpendicular. You are either going up or 
down all of the time. Lake Chelan lies four 
hundred feet above the Columbia River, and the 
road borders the stream through which Lake 
Chelan discharges its waters. On second thought 



142 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

that word " borders " does not fit. The road 
transcends the stream; looks down upon it. At 
one point in the journey you gaze downwards 
some five hundred feet upon the boiling, turbu- 
lent waters which have made a way for them- 
selves through a crevice in the rock. The colour 
reminds one of his boyhood when he interviewed 
the bluing water in the family wash-tub. 

Lake Chelan, at last, and a hotel for the night, 
as the boat does not leave for the upper end of 
the lake until morning. It was an eventful night 
not only because the inhabitants of the village 
were celebrating the " glorious Fourth," but 
chiefly from an important archaeological discovery 
made by the writer. Many of our readers are 
familiar with the account given in the Bible of 
the pillow upon which Jacob spent a dream-filled 
night. That identical pillow is in a hotel at Lake- 
side. It must be confessed that this is a deduc- 
tion and lacks absolute historical verification; but 
as Jacob's pillow was of stone and the Lakeside 
pillow is of the same material, and inasmuch as 
we have no record of any other pillow of that 
kind, it is a fair inference that Jacob's famous 
head-rest has been identified. If any one questions 
the deduction let him try the pillow. 

It is fifty-one miles from the foot of Lake 
Chelan to its head, and with each mile as one goes 
north the scenery grows more beautiful. The 
mountains at the lower end of the lake rise to a 



AMONG THE CUT-THROATS 143 

height of three or four thousand feet, while at 
the upper end they tower nine thousand feet 
almost precipitously from the water. The water 
of the lake is clear and blue, the mountains crowd 
upon it in their silent majesty, the air is clean and 
refreshing. 

On some still morning when the winds do not 
disturb the bosom of the lake, nature is at its 
best. In the lake we saw pictures that cannot be 
reproduced by any skill of man; miles of flawless 
mirror in which mountains and crags and trees and 
clouds were reproduced with matchless fidelity. 
Sometimes the clouds hung for hours over the 
summits of the mountains, and here and there 
were great masses of snow which no summer heat 
could banish. Looking up the valley of the 
Stehekin towards the north, twenty-five miles away 
rises a huge mountain, down the side of which 
a giant glacier makes its way. And the best of all 
is that here one is " far from the madding crowd." 
At the head of the lake is a hotel and a fish hatch- 
ery; no store, no factory, not even a Chautauqua. 

It has taken a long time to get to the cut-throats, 
but we have arrived at last. The books on fishing 
assure one that the cut-throat " takes the artificial 
fly greedily," and all the way the right arm has 
been fairly tingling with anxiety to begin casting. 
Alas ! and again alas ! The hotel clerk says that it 
is too early for the fly; we must use bait or a spoon. 
It is the old story over again. Did you ever 



144 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

travel far to a famous fishing ground and find the 
conditions just right? It is always too early or too 
late, the water is too high or too low, something 
is the matter which effectually prevents the best 
sport. But the man who has lugged a bundle of 
fly-rods to the church convention that he might use 
them on Lake Chelan is slow to believe that all his 
enterprise has been in vain. He will give them 
a try before abandoning hope. Behold him, then, 
whipping patiently on the edge of sand bars, in 
the swift water, under over-hanging bushes, in the 
shadows of great rocks, here, there, everywhere 
except on the board walk and the roof of the 
hotel ; but so far as results are concerned he might 
as well have cast his flies in State Street, Chicago. 
Nothing doing; not even the feeblest answer to 
his invitation. Meanwhile a fellow-boarder is 
fishing with bait, using a bamboo pole about six- 
teen feet long and derricking fish in with a regu- 
larity that is equalled only by his evident ignorance 
of all the fundamental principles of true sport. But 
he gets the fish. If one is fishing for market he may- 
use a telegraph pole or a net; but if he has in him 
something of the temper of the famous Izaak, 
fishing is more than meat. He loves the water and 
the sky, is made captive by the beauty of stream 
and mountain, delights to pit his wits against those 
of the wary citizens of the pool. 

But what is to be done? No one has yet been 
found who can compel a trout to go after the fly 



AMONG THE CUT-THROATS 145 

when he does not wish to. We troll with a 
Dowagiac spinner, and the result, in number of 
fish, is distinctly satisfactory. As the trolling is 
done with a steel rod there is a certain amount of 
sport in the exercise; but at the best it is far 
below fly-fishing. 

This story, thus far, has been written with care- 
ful attention to facts in order that it may bear 
the scrutiny of certain friends who companied 
with the writer for a short time at the head of 
the lake. They were good men and true, lovers 
of God's out-of-doors, delightful comrades. Their 
company was a joy, but their presence was embar- 
rassing. Every one knows that witnesses are 
unnecessary in fishing. To have some one at your 
elbow who wants to know just how many you 
have caught and what they weigh, allows no room 
for that play of the imagination which gives to 
fish stories their indefinable charm. It was a dark 
hour for the writer when these good friends turned 
their faces towards the south and left him desolate, 
but it was then that the fishing really began. 

Just where the Stehekin makes its final plunges 
before joining the lake, there is a reach of rippling 
water bordered on one side by low-growing trees, 
and on the other by a great bunch of drift-wood. 
The fly-rod was put in commission, a sinker was 
used, and a bit of the white throat of a trout took 
the place of the artificial lure. With the boat 
lying against the drift-wood a cast was made 



146 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

towards the trees, the bait allowed to sink and then 
drawn slowly towards the boat. Was that the 
bottom? Hardly, for it is tugging and lunging 
and rushing back and forth across the narrow 
water. The light bamboo meets every lunge, and 
the fight goes merrily on for ten minutes or so, 
when a beautiful Dolly Varden trout is brought 
to net. Another cast and another strike. This 
time the visitor has succeeded in getting on the 
other side of a log that juts out into the stream 
from the drift-wood. So much the better for the 
sport. Gently, little by little, he is persuaded to 
travel towards the end of that log, until, after many 
efforts, the line swings free. A long, delightful 
tussle, and he joins his comrade in the bottom of 
the boat. Lest the reader's patience should give 
way under the strain of detailed description, suffice 
it to say that from that one spot six Dolly Vardens 
were taken, not one of which weighed less than 
three pounds. 

But fly-fishing was found, such as it was. Two 
miles up the valley Boulder Creek comes down 
the canon and empties into the Stehekin. We 
were told that here one could catch mountain trout 
with the fly. A mile beyond Boulder Creek are the 
Rainbow Falls, where a stream drops over the 
eastern mountains for a sheer plunge of three 
hundred and twenty feet. One day was all too 
little to devote to the beauty of this scenery and 
an excursion up Boulder, but it was a day well 



AMONG THE CUT-THROATS 147 

spent. The trout were there; little fellows among 
whom a nine-inch fish was a giant. The farther one 
went up the canon the better the fishing grew and 
the more plentiful and vindictive the mosquitoes 
became. The fish bit readily and the mosquitoes 
more readily. One could have filled a basket with 
small fish, but after saving a dozen for dinner the 
rest were thrown back. Zest was added to this 
excursion by the information that rattlesnakes 
frequented these rocky slopes; so the fisherman 
walked softly and kept an eye to windward. 

Mountains and forests, dancing streams and 
beautiful lake, quiet and — fish! What more could 
one wish who seeks rest for tired nerves? Some 
time they will build a railroad in there, and then 
Lake Chelan will be easier of access, but less to 
be desired than now. When the crowds come, half 
of its present charm will be lost. 




J 

CAMPING 
ON 

THE NEPIGON 




XII 




CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON 

" Three fishers went rolling out into the North ; 
Out into the North as the sun went down." 

F that is plagiarism, make the 
most of it. It is a fact. There 
was the Business Man, the Doc- 
tor and the Preacher; fishermen 
all. They preferred to roll rather 
than to sail, because they were 
in a hurry. They rolled north rather than west, 
because the best trout stream in North America 
lies between Chicago and Hudson's Bay. Who 
has not heard of the famous Nepigon? What 
angler has not dreamed of battling with the giant 
trout which inhabit its waters? For months the 
Business Man, the Doctor and the Preacher had 
been examining their rods, looking over tackle, 
selecting flies, laying plans and looking forward 
with feverish anxiety to August first. 
151 



152 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

The evening of that day found us on board a 
vestibule Northwestern train, bound for Duluth 
and the Nepigon. At Duluth we exchanged rolling 
for sailing — by steam. If the weather had been at 
all nasty, we should have combined rolling with 
sailing; for the little tub which plies between Port 
Arthur and Duluth was evidently designed to 
exemplify all the possibilities in the way of tumb- 
ling about. But Lake Superior was on its good 
behaviour, with its face as smooth and calm as 
that of a sportsman when he has just landed a 
five-pound trout. The captain was one of the most 
genial of men, and the cook was undoubtedly a 
genius. We were not privileged to meet him per- 
sonally, but we had abundant evidence of his culi- 
nary skill. The memory of his soup will linger 
with us forever. After mature deliberation we 
unanimously agreed that it was unlike anything 
we had ever tasted. We tasted it but once, for what- 
ever other failings we may have, we are not greedy 
— at least for soup made from a strong decoction 
of musty hay, flavoured with extract of logwood. 
The polite waiter, observing that the Business Man 
was playing with the soup spoon instead of eating, 
mercifully inquired, " Have you got tired of your 
plate?" Disgust, relief, unsatisfied longing and 
a choice variety of unclassified emotions expressed 
themselves through the hasty affirmative of 
the B. M. 

If this chapter did not aim to treat of fishing, 



CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON 153 

the writer would be tempted to say that Port 
Arthur is " beautiful for situation." It lies one 
hundred and eighty miles east of Duluth on the 
north shore of Lake Superior. At this point the 
land rises gently from the lake shore, and from the 
elevation in the northern part of the town a beauti- 
ful panorama is seen. Immediately before us is 
Thunder Bay, hemmed in by the rocky walls of the 
mainland, Pie Island and Thunder Cape. A nar- 
row passage opens out into the lake, through which 
Isle Royal may be dimly seen in the distance. 
Thunder Cape rises to a height of fourteen hun- 
dred feet, and Pie Island — which takes its name 
from its shape — is not less than one thousand 
feet high, with a little lake on its top. The sides 
of both island and cape are exceedingly bold. We 
watched them one August night as the setting sun 
touched the bold rock into gold and purple, and 
saw the shadows steal over the waters and up the 
precipitous sides of the cliffs until water and cliff 
were hidden in the darkness. 

But we must get on to Nepigon, seventy-five to 
one hundred miles away. We take the train on 
the Canadian Pacific, and glad are we when the 
conductor shouts out, " Nepigon." We look out 
with curious eyes upon the famous Canadian city. 
There are four log-houses, a store and a hotel. 
We afterward found the Hudson Bay Company's 
store, and the comfortable house occupied by the 
agent. In fact, this same agent was the immediate 



154 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

object of our search, for he had kindly undertaken 
to engage guides and make the other necessary 
arrangements for our trip up the river. He proved 
to be one of the most courteous and obliging of 
gentlemen, and spared no pains to assist us in 
preparations for the trip. To his wise selection 
of guides was due much of the pleasure of our 
outing. 

Behold us on a sunny morning fairly embarked 
and headed up the noble Nepigon. A little 
geography and guide-book eloquence might be 
appropriate just here. The Nepigon River is the 
largest tributary to Lake Superior. It is about 
forty miles in length, and the outlet of Lake Nepi- 
gon, a body of water seventy miles long by fifty 
miles wide, with a shoreline of five hundred and 
eighty miles. There is a fall of one hundred and 
thirty feet in its course of forty miles, and that 
means numerous cascades and rapids. But the 
fact of prime importance is that this river is the 
home of big trout; not only large, but pugnacious. 
They are the Sullivans — beg pardon, I mean the 
Johnsons — of the Salmo Fontinalis family. 

But this is getting ahead of my story. We are 
just starting up the river. Let me introduce you 
to our four guides : Aleck De La Ronde, Joe 
Kejigos, Vincent Ashawikyegulap and Zavier 
Misak. They are Ojibway Indians. Aleck, the 
head man, not only speaks English, but reads and 
writes. Joe speaks a little English, and the other 



CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON 155 

two none at all. Two birch-bark canoes are loaded 
with our tents, duffle and provisions. If any 
reader imagines that to camp out is to go half 
starved, let him cast his eye over this list of eat- 
ables: ham, bacon, potatoes, flour, eggs, baked 
beans, canned soups, chicken, beef, peaches, apri- 
cots, maple syrup, preserves of various kinds, con- 
densed milk, bouillon, etc., etc. However, we 
needed all our provisions, and even more, for a 
camp appetite is sure to be large, vigorous, and 
in a chronic state of discontent. 

Now we are off. The river at this point has 
broadened out into a beautiful lake. Yonder, upon 
the eastern shore, nestles the Roman Catholic mis- 
sion house. All of our guides, as well as the ma- 
jority of the six hundred Indians upon the reserva- 
tion, are members of this communion. No one 
who talks with them can doubt that their religion 
is real. It affects their lives and controls, in some 
measure, their actions. Yonder, toward the south, 
a great mass of red rock lifts itself high in the air, 
and for many years it gave the name of " Red 
Rock " to this section. The Indians paddle and 
jabber. It is comforting to be told by Aleck that 
there are no " swear words " in the Ojibway lan- 
guage; but for this assurance we should have 
thought our guides horribly profane. The language 
sounds rough and full of imprecation. How our 
conception of the morose and taciturn Indian 
vanishes in the presence of these light-hearted, 



156 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

genial and loquacious red-men ! They are children, 
full of mirth, fond of companionship, kindly in 
disposition, honest and faithful. We pass the neat 
log cabins of our guides, catch glimpses of a few 
wigwams on the western shore, and by five o'clock 
in the afternoon land at Camp Alexander, some 
twelve miles from Nepigon station. This camp 
is on a large pool at the foot of a rapid. The 
water comes foaming down through the narrow 
pass between the rocks, and then swirls and eddies 
and boils and bubbles before beginning its quiet 
journey toward the lake. It is just the place for 
trout. Rods are quickly assembled, flies carefully 
selected, and, trembling with eagerness, the fisher- 
men make their way to the stream. And now 
comes a humiliating confession. The Preacher is 
the first to reach the river, and in a moment more 
his flies are dancing in the eddy. To his surprise 
nothing disturbs them. He casts again and yet 
again, but all in vain. So far as any signs of trout 
are concerned he might as well cast upon the pel- 
lucid waters of the Chicago River. Then comes a 
terrible temptation. A wily fiend whispers in his 
ear, " Try a worm." Now the large-hearted Hud- 
son Bay agent had presented the Preacher with a 
box of choice angle worms, and said box is at that 
moment in the ministerial pocket. Another in- 
effectual cast of the flies, and then " What a fall 
was there, my countrymen ! " Off come the flies 
and on goes a fat worm. Gently the wriggling 



CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON 157 

bait is dropped into the water, just in the shadow 
of a huge rock, when, tug — zip — whoop — " Hello! 
Bring the landing net ! — Quick ! I've got him ! — 
Hurry up ! " The air is heavy with the Preacher's 
cries, and the rod is springing under the mad dives 
of the trout, and then — it is all over, and out on 
the grass lies a beautiful " two-pounder," and the 
Preacher is suffering from the taunts and jeers 
of the Business Man and the Doctor : " Caught it 
with a worm ! " " What kind of a sportsman do 
you call yourself?" The pride begotten by cap- 
turing the first fish is knocked down and trampled 
upon by the shame of having been unsportsmanlike. 
Let it be said that the next day that box of worms 
was lost and never found. 

Back to camp, where we find the tents up and 
supper well under way. That first supper in camp ! 
Three hungry men devoured everything in sight, 
until it came to pancakes; then they paused, not 
from lack of appetite, but from fear of a sudden 
and horrible death. From what ingredients Joe, 
the cook, compounded those cakes will remain a 
mystery forever. It was suggested that he had 
cooked a flannel blanket or a pair of gum-boots, 
but he denied it. We ate very sparingly of the 
cakes, and soon afterward went to bed. That night 
the Preacher had a dream. An enormous bird, 
with curved beak and fierce eyes, persisted in 
roosting upon his stomach. Nor would the bird 
stand still, but with fiendish malignity curvetted 



158 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

and danced and double-shuffled, greatly to the 
Preacher's discomfort. The unfortunate victim 
expostulated mildly, but the bird laughed him to 
scorn. Then the Preacher pushed the dancer off, 
but the bird hopped back at once and proceeded to 
execute a Highland fling. Then the long-suffering 
Preacher arose in his wrath and, seizing a knife, 
cut the bird's head off. Horror! No sooner was 
the " foul " deed accomplished than the bird proved 
to be a man, and the Preacher was hustled before 
a Chicago court to be tried for murder. The prose- 
cuting attorney showed beyond a question that the 
Preacher had deliberately killed this man. The 
lawyer for the defence submitted, first, that the 
man had no business to assume the form of a bird; 
second, that the stomach of a Preacher should 
never be used as a dance hall. The jury retires and 
is gone for only five minutes. The Preacher 
trembles in the box, and as the jurymen file back 
into their seats he — awakes. The verdict will 
never be known, although the dreamer did his best 
to go to sleep again at once and find out the 
decision. 

The Doctor also had his experience that first 
night in camp. He was shot. As he lay listening 
to the gentle breathings of his tent-mates a sharp 
report, as of a gun, was heard, and he felt a bullet 
strike him over the heart. The end had come. It 
was hard to die so young, far from his dear ones, 
in the depths of the wilderness; but being a good 



CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON 159 

man and a philosopher he whispered farewell to 
this world, composed his limbs and calmly awaited 
death. But it didn't come; so the Doctor proceeded 
to make a diagnosis of his case. After thorough 
examination he found that the string stretched 
from the rear to the front tent pole and upon which 
various articles were suspended, had broken, and 
the looking-glass had struck him in the ribs. He 
took a long breath, went to sleep, and told us the 
joke in the morning. 

Early the next morning we broke camp and were 
on our way up the river. In order to get around 
the rapids a portage of two miles is made at this 
point. It was a novel sight to see our guides pack- 
ing the provisions, cooking utensils, etc. The 
white guide in the Adirondacks would carry it in 
a pack basket ; but the Indian makes a large bundle 
which he ties together with the ends of his packing 
strap — some twenty feet long — leaving the central 
and wider portion of the strap to pass over his 
forehead, thus supporting with his neck the burden 
which rests upon his shoulders. The average load 
for a packer is two hundred pounds. When night 
comes we are at Split Rock, where we camp, and 
the next day make Pine Portage. Here we camp 
for a week, and really begin to fish. There is a 
splendid stretch of broken water right in front of 
the camp, and good pools within a short distance 
either up or down the river. The Business Man 
goes down the river one morning and comes back 



160 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

with a pair of trout which weigh nine and a quarter 
pounds. Then the Doctor sets the camp in tur- 
moil by taking a five and a quarter pound fish. 
The poor Preacher rejoices in the success of his 
brethren, and tries hard to beat them; but four and 
a quarter pounds is the best he can do. Large 
numbers of trout are taken, ranging from two to 
four pounds apiece, but it is the big trout we want. 
How swiftly the days pass! A week has gone, 
and if we are to go as far as Lake Nepigon, we 
must push on. We break camp reluctantly, for 
this place seems like home to us. We have become 
familiar with every rock in the stream, with every 
eddy, almost. We have watched the sun go down 
in the woods which stretch unbroken for uncounted 
miles to the west, and have seen the yellow moon 
lift itself above the bold shoulder of the mountain 
which borders the river on the east. 

But we have heard great stories of the fishing 
higher up, and away we go. Camp Victoria! 
Magic name with which to conjure scenes of the 
rarest pleasure! Here, where the swift-rushing 
river forms our front door-step, we make another 
long halt. Here, about ten rods below our camp, 
a gentleman from Woodstock, Ontario, took an 
eight-pound trout only last week. Here the 
Preacher caught three trout weighing five and a 
quarter, five, and four and a half pounds, respec- 
tively, and took two of them in two successive 
casts. Here Aleck, the head guide, broke the game 



CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON 161 

law, and we became partakers of his crime by eat- 
ing broiled partridge for supper. From this point 
we made excursions to Lake Nepigon, and found 
that the half had not been told us as to the beauties 
of this inland sea. Bold, rocky shores, clear, blue 
reaches of water, islands small and great, unbroken 
wilderness all about, with the August sun smiling 
down upon this unsullied work of God. A fairer 
picture man never saw. 

From Camp Victoria we visited Virgin Falls, 
where, just after the river leaves the lake, the 
water, pressed in between walls of rock, has a sheer 
fall of some twenty feet. And what noble fish we 
took at this camp ! Great lusty fellows, lying in 
swift running water, and with every muscle 
seasoned and wiry ! Poems in gold and brown 
they were. The rougher the water the larger and 
gamier the fish. It was here that the Doctor had 
had an attack of sea-sickness. They were out in 
the rapids, anchored, and the canoe was dancing 
about in the current, when the Doctor suddenly 
lost all interest in everything above his head, and 
fastened his gaze upon the bottom of the river. 
He heaved — well, call it a sigh; now draw the veil. 

Our camp was upon the solid rock, but when the 
thunder-storm was abroad in the land, that rock 
shook and trembled. We shall not soon forget 
that night of storm when our tent seemed a target 
for the lightning. In the morning we found two 
great pines rent and shivered by the electric bolts. 



162 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

The Indians have their own explanation of a 
thunder-storm. The thunder is the noise made by 
a giant bird as it beats its wings against its body; 
the lightning is caused by the bird winking its 
eye. 

The story of those idyllic days would require a 
volume for its telling, and the patience of the 
reader is probably exhausted long ere this. There 
came an evening when Joe placed a dish before us 
and announced, " All potatoes." To be sure they 
were all potatoes. Did he imagine that we would 
take them for billiard balls? But there is a 
deeper significance in his words. After a wild 
struggle with our language, he manages to say, 
" Potatoes all gone." This is the beginning of the 
end. A hasty examination of the larder shows 
us that we have barely enough provisions to last 
until we can reach civilization. It is the Business 
Man's appetite that has undone us. He is not 
large in stature, but he has developed an appetite 
that would paralyze a boarding-house keeper. The 
worst of it is that his appetite has gotten away 
from him, and goes roaming around among the 
victuals seeking what it may devour. Sadly we 
pack up and turn our faces toward the south. 
Word is brought in that Mary, the little daughter 
of our head guide, is dead. We press hurriedly 
on, through the sunshine and the beating storm, 
and within twenty-four hours from the time when 
the tidings reached us, our canoes are before the 



CAMPING ON THE NEPIGON 163 

little cabin and we watch the sorrowing father as 
he enters his darkened home. 

" Death comes down with reckless footsteps, 
To the hall and hut." 

Sitting on the hotel piazza at Port Arthur, the 
Preacher watched the steamer on which were the 
Business Man and the Doctor, until it became a 
speck on the horizon and vanished from sight. He 
said in his heart, " Those are good men and true. 
Dear friends before, they are still dearer after 
the crucial test of camp life. God bless them 
alway." 



IN A 

HOUSE-BOAT 
ON THE 
KOOTENAY 




-Sr- 



To stand within a gently gliding 

boat 
Urged by a noiseless paddle at the 

stern, 
Whipping the crystal mirror of the 

fern 
In fairy bays where water-lilies 

float; 
To hear your reel's whirr echoed 

from the throat 
Of a wild mocking bird . . . 
This is to live the old days o'er 
When nymph and dryad haunted 

stream and glade, 
To dream sweet happy dreams of 

having strayed 
To Arcady with all its golden lore. 
— Charles Henry Luders, 
Haunts of the Halcyon. 




XIII 



IN A HOUSE-BOAT ON THE KOOTENAY 




LORIOUS Kootenay!" That's 
what the folders call it, and if 
any more intense adjective could 
be found that too would be tacked 
on. That Canadian Northwest 
strains the English language tre- 
mendously. " Magnificent," " splendid," " grand," 
" glorious," are worn to frazzles by constant use, 
and were it possible to roll them all into one big 
word, it would still be utterly inadequate to ex- 
press the native's admiration for his country. The 
chances are that the reader does not even know 
where the Kootenay is, and, while we have a dis- 
tinct aversion to playing the part of a guide-book, 
we will go so far as to advise consultation of a good 
map of British Columbia. Down in the south- 
eastern corner you will find Kootenay Lake and 
River, but the map does not reveal the rugged 
167 



168 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

mountains, the wine-like air, the sparkling water, 
the sunshine, the peace, the restfulness, the 
TROUT that make the Kootenay one of God's 
best gifts to man. 

The confession may as well be made first as last 
that we went to the Kootenay country for the 
express purpose of fishing. This is no disparage- 
ment to the people or to the scenery, for each 
stands at the head of its class. But some philoso- 
pher has said (or if he has not he ought to have 
done so) : " Count that vacation wasted in which 
you do no fishing." Wasting a vacation is sinful; 
therefore we fish. Here in the Kootenay are trout 
worthy of one's skill; heroes of many battles; 
cunning and adroit veterans who know all the 
tricks at the command of the enemy. 

Just below the point where the Kootenay River 
breaks out of the lake is the little hamlet of Proc- 
tor. There is not much to the place but the hotel 
and the name — yes, and the trout. The river is 
wide and deep, with swift current and numberless 
counter-currents. Where the water rushes around 
some rock or point of sand, where current struggles 
with current and a great swirl grows out of the 
conflict, there the rainbow-trout hold their town- 
meetings. We attended some of them and tried 
our uttermost to break them up. It was in a visit 
to one of these gatherings that the Junior made 
his bow to the inhabitants of the Kootenay waters. 
Behold the young man (not quite four years old) 



ON THE KOOTENAY 169 

seated in the stern of the boat, rod firmly grasped, 
determination in his eye, while his aged sire works 
the oars. To and fro over the waters for a little 
time, then the rod bends sharply back, and far be- 
hind a quivering mass of colour springs into the air 
and falls back with a mighty splash. " I've got 
him!" cries the Junior, and "Hang on!" cries 
the Senior. And he does hang on. Great boy, 
that! He's as quiet and self-controlled as if only 
purloining cookies out of the jar in the pantry. 
It must be confessed that the fond father gave a 
little aid in landing the victim, but what of that? 
A noble two-pounder is lying in the bottom of 
the boat, and if there is a prouder mortal in 
the universe than that boy it is his venerable 
father. 

But it is the house-boat concerning which we set 
out to write. Be it known that the Canadian 
Pacific Railway Company maintains a finely fur- 
nished house-boat on the Kootenay waters for such 
visitors as may desire to realize the utmost of 
human happiness. Can you see it in your mind's 
eye? Sixty feet long by about twenty in width, 
four staterooms with two berths each, servants' 
quarters, kitchen, pantry, storerooms, toilets, 
cabin. On the upper deck are chairs, and here, 
under the shade of the awning, we rest after the 
arduous labour of doing nothing. The house- 
boat is towed to any point on river or lake which 
you may select, and tied up to the shore. The 



170 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

steamer stops daily on its trips from Nelson to 
Kootenay Landing to take your orders for pro- 
visions or to bring supplies. A Chinaman does the 
" house work," including alleged cooking. Do 
you get the picture? 

It was five o'clock on a Friday afternoon when 
the tug and the house-boat picked us up at Proctor. 
By " us " is meant the Preacher and his family, 
together with the Doctor and his daughter. The 
wind was blowing fresh from the south, and our 
destination was twenty miles away. Once out of 
the river where the wind could get a fair chance 
at us, and that house-boat began to buck. Per- 
haps you think there are no possibilities of a heavy 
sea on an inland lake. If so, you will do well to 
think again. Kootenay Lake is more than one 
hundred miles long with an average width of 
some five miles. Great mountains guard it on 
either side, and up that long tunnel the wind 
came with a whoop. The boat was lashed to the 
windward side of the tug, and so was in position 
to get the full benefit of any slap that the waves 
thought best to give. We rose and fell and heaved 
about. The hawsers were not absolutely taut, 
and ever and again the boat would be knocked 
against the tug with a jar that made everything 
rattle. It was time for supper, and the potatoes 
were on to boil and the tea-kettle was just begin- 
ning to sing, when a huge wave lifted us up and 
hurled us against the tug. Over went potatoes, 



ON THE KOOTENAY 171 

tea-kettle, kerosene can and everything else that 
was not nailed down, while the dishes flew from 
their resting-places and smashed to pieces on the 
floor. Who cares? Certain members of the party 
did not, at any rate, for they had lost all interest 
in the food supply, and were in retirement. Huge 
joke, to be sea-sick on a house-boat ! The captain 
yells from the tug that we must abandon the 
thought of making Midge Creek that night, and 
heads for Pilot Bay, across the lake. Blessed 
haven ! In a landlocked harbour anchor is dropped 
and in a short time order is brought out of chaos, 
and the discouraged members of the party regain 
their appetites. 

At four o'clock the next morning we are awak- 
ened by the chugging of the tug. Day is just 
breaking, and the lake is as smooth as the floor 
of a bowling alley. Three hours later we are tied 
up to a sandy beach on the west shore of the lake, 
and vacation has really begun. Not a house is to 
be seen except two or three in the distance on the 
opposite shore. Ten rods away, to the north, a 
mountain stream comes rushing down the canon 
and goes billowing far out into the lake. At the 
south end of the beach a giant mass of bare rock 
lifts itself into the air, while the mountains are all 
about us. Here and there a snowy peak looms 
into the blue. The lake dimples and smiles under 
a cloudless sky, and murmurs a gentle welcome as 
it laps upon the gravelly beach. This is a beautiful 



172 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

world, and nowhere more beautiful than on the 
shores of the Kootenay. 

What about the fishing? In view of the dictum 
recently rendered by certain inordinately good 
people and recorded in one of our great religious 
weeklies, that question is clearly out of order. It 
has been decided by those who have no question as 
to their infallibility that it is wicked to catch fish. 
(Poor Peter! How thoroughly ashamed of him- 
self he would be were he living in this day of 
ethical enlightenment.) Let it be understood 
before proceeding further, that our action has 
historic precedent in the well-known case of the 
boy and the woodchuck. We had to fish. We 
were forty miles from the base of supplies. The 
Doctor and the Junior and the girls and the head 
of the house and the Chinaman and the Preacher 
must eat or perish. As each and all manifested a 
strong prejudice against perishing, some one must 
fish. The Preacher offers himself as a hesitating 
violator of that high-toned, transcendental morality 
which places fishing among the mortal sins, and 
the Doctor aids and abets him. 

Just here listen to a word of advice : If you will 
fish, provide yourself with a friend so unselfish that 
he will joyously perjure himself by declaring that 
he does not care anything about the sport and pre- 
fers to row the boat. It is important to have good 
tackle, carefully selected flies, a rod that will stand 
strain and a line that runs freely; but the sine 



ON THE KOOTENAY 173 

qua non is a companion whose generosity is so 
much greater than your own that he will insist 
upon turning himself into a motor for your benefit. 
Such a man is the Doctor. May all blessings rest 
upon him ! Those golden hours on the Kootenay 
were enriched by his companionship, and his un- 
selfishness materially increased the Preacher's 
score. 

Now we are off. The trunks have been un- 
packed, the " girls " are tidying up the boat, the 
Junior is busy floating his ships from the shore, 
and the row-boat, with the Doctor at the oars and 
the Preacher waving his rod, is rounding the point 
of rocks to the south. Repeated casts of the flies 
find nothing doing. At last there is a swirl and a 
tug. But what sort of a trout is it at the end of 
the line? He pulls and plunges, but there is never 
a jump nor any indication of a purpose to break 
water. It is not much of a fight, anyhow, and the 
net lifts in a fish the like of which neither Doctor 
nor Preacher has ever seen before. Large head, 
enormous mouth, brownish back and sides with 
yellowish belly, he looks something like a salt water 
ling. And that was the sum total of the morning's 
catch. Not much slaughter of the innocents about 
that ! We ventured to cook that unclassified 
victim, and he was not bad as food for the starving. 
Later on the Doctor learned from the hermit — of 
course we had a hermit — that the stranger is called 
a " squaw-fish," although it is said that the proper 



174 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

name is " squawk-fish," so called from the noise it 
makes when caught. 

Is this all that the far-famed Kootenay can 
furnish? Must it be told to future generations 
that two able-bodied men spent a half -day of 
strenuous toil and only captured a plebeian squaw- 
fish? Well, tell it if you must, but when you get 
started keep right on and tell the whole story. 
That afternoon we deserted the calm water along 
the shore and struck out for the tumbling billows 
made by Midge Creek as it rushes into the lake. 
Then and there the sport began. The trout were at 
home and receiving callers. The gaudy " Parma- 
chene Belle " had no sooner struck the water than 
snap — whizz — jump — splash — landing net — two- 
pounder, and then it all began over again. We 
had struck our gait. 

What fishing! Did you ever catch a rainbow 
trout? If not, you have yet to live. He is a com- 
bination of gymnast and dynamo. When com- 
munications have been established, he at once 
begins a series of acrobatic performances which 
leave no doubt as to his agility. The writer 
counted twelve jumps made by one fish before he 
was brought to net. These were not little dis- 
turbances of the surface of the water, just enough 
to give notice of his whereabouts — but clean leaps. 
How high? How would three feet do? If that's 
too much, take off an inch. Especially fascinating 
was the sport after sundown, when the dusk was 



ON THE KOOTENAY 175 

upon the face of the waters. Then, with a " white 
miller " as lure, we circled the broken water, 
knowing not where the fly lighted, but certain that 
it would be seen and craved by some hungry trout. 

But it was in the early morning that the most 
wonderful phenomena were seen. The writer 
pledges his word that if he had not been there he 
would not believe it (the reader is not expected to 
credit the statement), but the Preacher, on divers 
and sundry occasions, left his berth before sunrise 
and went out to fish. The grey is in the eastern 
sky, and the lake motionless. Nothing breaks the 
silence but the roar of the creek or the sharp chal- 
lenge of a chipmunk. Rowing slowly along the 
shore, the world seems as fresh as if newly born. 
A tip-up teeters along the beach, a thrush sings 
his morning hymn of praise among the trees on 
the mountain side, and now the sun peeps over a 
notch in the eastern hills. Did you ever see more 
exquisite colouring than the brown of the moss 
upon that rock, or the delicate shades of green in 
that clump of trees? The fish are not early risers, 
or, if they are up, have not found their appetites: 
but what matters it? Here are peace and beauty; 
God's good world at its best. 

Just one little story about the big trout. It was 
close by a face of rock that rose sheer from the 
water for fifty feet or more, that we struck him. 
Up and again up, in mighty leaps clear from the 
water he flung himself. With great surges he 



176 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

carried out the line, and then allowed himself to 
be coaxed gently toward the boat. When the 
Preacher fancied that the fight was well over and 
the great fish could be seen plainly but a few feet 
from the boat, there was another rush, and this 
straight down. There were one hundred and fifty 
feet of line on the reel, and the old warrior took 
out every inch of it. Where did he go? To China 
for aught the writer knows — but he came back. 
Slowly and reluctantly he yielded to the steady 
strain, and at last lay in the bottom of the boat, a 
dream of beauty. Three pounds and a quarter ! 
The biggest rainbow trout caught in the Kootenay 
this summer; so the Nelson fishermen aver! 
Hooray ! ! ! 

By this time, the members of the gentler sex 
are saying, " It must have been deadly dull for 
the ' girls.' ' Far from it,. Ask the Preacheress, 
and she will tell you that every moment of every 
day was full of happiness. That you may have a 
glimpse at some of the experiences which helped 
to make the hours pass pleasantly, listen to the 
tale of the chipmunks. The whole family looked 
at us askance when we first tied up near their home. 
Just a hurried scamper along the logs, and then 
away they fled with a warning chatter. Two days 
had not passed before they were eating crumbs 
thrown out for them. On the third day their sus- 
picions were so far allayed that they ate from the 
hand of one of the party. After that, not a day 



ON THE KOOTENAY 177 

passed, and hardly an hour of daylight, but some 
one could be seen holding out a crust at which a 
chipmunk was gnawing away. They lost all fear 
and would crawl over the knees and sometimes 
up on the shoulders in search of rations. They 
would allow us to stroke their heads and feel of 
the cheek-pouches in which they stored away food, 
without raising the slightest objections. When we 
left they had come to seem like old friends. They 
deserved better treatment at our hands than was 
accorded them, and the writer's heart is filled with 
self-reproach as he recalls the dastardly act with 
which we closed our relations with these little 
friends. We gave them Jimmie's pie ! ( Jimmie 
was the Chinese cook.) Near the close of our 
stay he manufactured the most wonderful and in 
every way impossible pie ever achieved by human 
ingenuity. One after another, every member of 
the party attacked that combination, only to suffer 
defeat. It was still intact when the time came to 
leave. It would have had abiding interest as a 
specimen, but there was danger that it might be 
broken in transit, so we left it for those confiding 
chipmunks. One thing is sure, if living, they must 
be woefully discouraged. 

Jimmie was a character. What he did not know 
about the English language was equalled only by 
his abysmal ignorance of cooking. Asked to bring 
some breakfast-food for the Junior, he disappeared 
kitchenward, and when, after a long absence, one 



178 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

of the party went in search of him, he was dis- 
covered proudly bearing toward the table — a 
canteloupe. But Jimmie did his best, and that was 
quite enough to satisfy the happy members of our 
little family. He could boil potatoes well, and the 
water that he brought from Midge Creek was 
always first-class. Then, too, we had cooks of our 
own. 

" Time to stop," do I hear the weary reader say? 
Very likely, but the half has not been told. You 
should hear about the " hermit," with his long, 
white hair and beard, his piercing eyes, his little 
shack and garden and the romantic love-affair 
which is said to have driven him into voluntary 
exile. You have not heard of the hard tramp up 
the canon, past almost innumerable cascades and 
rapids, back and upwards until a pool is reached 
where a great throng" of mountain trout is 
assembled. That marvellous rainbow which 
followed the Sunday afternoon storm must be 
ignored. The Junior's sand-wells, his fall from 
the gang-plank resulting in a broken collar-bone, 
the fracas with a colony of yellow-jackets, the 
night of storm when we feared lest the cables 
break and we go drifting at the mercy of wind 
and waves — but what's the use? You will never 
know what you have missed through your insis- 
tence that you've had enough. The writer had 
intended to tell of the total depravity of those 
trout, manifested on the Sundays of our stay with 



ON THE KOOTENAY 179 

them, as they gathered en masse at the stern of 
the house-boat and dared the Preacher to cast a 
fly. Perhaps it is just as well to stop right here, 
for words cannot be found with which to describe 
the ministerial struggle. 



SKEGEMOG 
POINT 




Angling is an art, and an art 
worth learning; the question is 
whether you be capable of learning 
it. For Angling is something like 
Poetry, men are to be bom so. I 
mean with inclinations to it, though 
both may be heightened by discourse 
and practice. But he that hopes to 
be a good Angler, must not only 
bring an inquiring, searching, ob- 
serving wit; but he must bring a 
large measure of hope and patience, 
and a love and propensity to the art 
itself; but by having once got and 
practised it, then doubt not but 
Angling will prove to be so pleasant, 
that it will prove to be like virtue, 
a rezvard to itself. — Izaak Walton, 
The Complete Angler. 




XIV 



SKEGEMOG POINT 




HAT'S that?" 

The elect lady should have been 
asleep instead of sitting up in bed, 
an animated interrogation point, 
for the hour was late and the ride 
from Chicago that day had been 
hot and dusty and fatiguing. 

" What's what? " grunted the sleepy partner of 
her joys. 

" That noise. Don't you hear it ? It sounds like 
a band playing in the distance." 

When this suggestion finally penetrated the semi- 
conscious mind of the husband, the absurdity of 
the idea called forth certain emphatic if not con- 
vincing negative arguments, all of which were 
met with the puzzling query, " If it's not a band, 
what is it?" 

"That's what I'll soon find out," answered the 
183 



184 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

skeptic, as he arose to begin a serious investigation. 

The noise was unmistakable; faint but clear, and 
from without. Approaching the window the noise 
became more distinct, but the character of it 
remained a mystery. Bands are not indigenous in 
rural districts, and no large town was near. With 
nose pressed against the window-screen in a vain 
effort to see everything within a radius of five 
miles, the explorer suddenly realized that the music 
was right at hand, and the musicians, in countless 
numbers, were separated from his face only by 
the wire netting. Mosquitoes? Exactly, and their 
name was legion. If night had suddenly turned to 
day one could not have seen anything through that 
window for the cloud of mosquitoes. New Jersey 
may justly boast of the size and ferocity of her 
mosquitoes, but for numbers Skegemog fears no 
rival. 

It is more than probable that some reader will 
say to himself, " I wouldn't stay in such a place." 
Well, we stayed, not because of the pests, but in 
spite of them, and because they formed the only 
drawback to one's enjoyment. The Lodge was on 
a point of land with water on three sides, the 
table was exceptionally satisfactory, the guests 
were congenial and the black bass never failed to 
respond promptly to our advances. What are a 
few mosquitoes, more or less, when such para- 
disaical conditions obtain? 

To many people a bass is a bass, and that's all 



SKEGEMOG POINT 185 

there is to it. To be sure, they recognize the fact 
that some bass are larger than others, but the 
process of differentiation begins and ends with 
the table of weights and measures. Skegemog bass 
belong to the small-mouth family, and there is as 
much difference between these and the big-mouth 
variety as between a split-bamboo rod and a saw- 
log. The small-mouth is the aristocrat of the bass 
family. He is more dainty in his tastes, more 
plucky, and has more brains than his brother of 
the more generous facial opening. 

And the small-mouth bass are not all alike. The 
marked differences seen in children of the same 
family are duplicated in the individuality shown 
by fish belonging to the same species. The bass 
whose home is in swift waters is a stronger, more 
tireless fighter than his brother of the lake. Of 
two bass living side by side in the same water, one 
may be logy and lazy and indisposed to strenuous 
exertion when hooked, while the other is brought 
to net only after he has tried every dodge known 
to fishdom and exhausted every atom of his 
strength. 

It was while fishing on the reef just west of 
the Point that the invalid bass was taken. Each 
fisherman has his favourite method of capturing 
bass. One uses live frogs and casts close to the 
edge of the rushes or weeds along shore. Another 
trolls with many yards of line out, and a piece of 
pork-rind or a minnow fastened to the spoon. 



186 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

Still a third anchors his boat and still-fishes with 
live minnows. A fourth method, and one which 
we prefer to any of the others, is to row slowly 
over promising ground, letting the minnow sink 
well down and keeping it constantly moving. It 
was while fishing in this manner and after taking 
six or eight fine fish, that a feeble tug at the line 
signalled the presence of the invalid. He came in 
with scarce a struggle; in fact he seemed to be 
relieved to have his troubles ended. As no expert 
was present to diagnose the case we shall never 
know from what malady he suffered, but he was 
a sick fish. If he had been a man the pallor and 
emaciation might have indicated tuberculosis, al- 
though he did not cough. He had a giant frame, 
and in health would have weighed five pounds or 
more. As it was, he barely went two pounds. 
As he was still able to wiggle a little after the 
weighing process was over, he was returned to 
the water, where, after lying seemingly lifeless for 
a moment, he feebly swam away. Just before he 
disappeared he turned a reproachful look towards 
the fisherman, as much as to say, " Why didn't 
you put an end to my suffering? I'm disappointed 
in you." If we ever catch another invalid fish 
we'll kill him on the spot. 

On a certain day, among the new arrivals was a 
Cleric and his Satellite. The Cleric was a genial 
and interesting man and an enthusiastic fisherman. 
That night he asked many questions about the 



SKEGEMOG POINT 187 

fishing, and calmly announced that the next day 
he would show us how to catch bass. Then the 
Satellite took the floor and descanted at length 
upon the prowess of his friend and the piscatorial 
victories won by him on other waters and in other 
days. Not a word was said in reply by the men of 
the company, some of whom had fancied that they 
knew a little about bass fishing; but on more than 
one face there was a grim look which betokened 
something a little short of perfect happiness. 

The next morning the Cleric and his Satellite 
were up bright and early, being the first to start 
out upon the day's fishing. Later on, three other 
boats put out, each containing a man who had 
vowed to beat that Cleric or perish in the attempt. 
When night came and the records of the day's 
catches were compared, it was found that the high- 
hook had brought in eighteen bass, another twelve, 
a third eight, while the invincible Cleric had taken 
but two. Never again, as the guests gathered on 
the porch at nightfall, did the Cleric expatiate upon 
his skill as a fisher for bass, and no more did the 
Satellite recount the marvellous exploits of his 
hero. On the faces of the other fishermen there 
rested a look of deep satisfaction and in their eyes 
one might detect a gleam of amusement. It isn't 
necessary to brag about your achievements. Just 
do things, and let that brag for you. 

But the Cleric was a good fellow and his stories 
helped to pass many an evening pleasantly. One, 



188 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

that may serve as a sample, has stuck in our 
memory : 

" Where a railroad crosses a Michigan river is 
a deep pool under the bridge. As a fisherman was 
casting in this pool one day, he had a mighty 
strike followed by the fierce whizzing of his reel 
as the fish ran out the line. Before the man 
realized what was happening the line parted and 
the fish was free. In the afternoon he returned 
with a new and stronger line, only to repeat the 
experience of the morning. Then salmon tackle 
was called into use, which was promptly smashed 
by the, as yet, unseen denizen of the pool. By this 
time the fisherman had parted company with all 
his cherished principles of sportsmanship, and 
vowed that he would capture that fish even if he 
had to shoot it. Abjuring the rod, he next em- 
ployed a muskallonge line and a cod-hook, baiting 
with a five-inch minnow. The fish responded 
promptly, and the big line just as promptly parted 
when this Sandow of the finny tribe had gotten 
fully into action. As a result of deep reflection 
the fisherman then bought a clothes-line and em- 
ployed a neighbouring blacksmith to make him a 
hook big enough and strong enough to hold a 
shark. Baiting the hook with a pound of raw beef 
and giving the line a half-hitch around a near-by 
stump, he once more challenged his unseen foe. 
For three hours a mighty battle raged. The 
blacksmith, two section hands and a farmer joined 



SKEGEMOG POINT 189 

forces with the fisherman, and the five of them 
finally succeeded in landing the fish. After quiet- 
ing him with a club, they began to wonder at the 
fight which he had put up. While he was large — 
some twenty-five inches in length — his size did not 
fully explain matters. Then one of them under- 
took to turn the fish over with his foot, and could 
not stir him. He used both hands and failed. 
Then the five together tackled the job and barely 
succeeded. Evidently, here was an extraordi- 
narily heavy fish, and the phenomenon was ex- 
plained only when they cut the fish open and found 
him full of railroad frogs." 

That story brings to mind the champion story- 
teller of northern Michigan who acted as occasional 
oarsman for the Skegemog guests. He was gen- 
erally known as the " Cheerful Liar," and his 
kinship to Baron Munchausen was put beyond the 
shadow of a doubt by the variety and character 
of his stories. After a somewhat careful study of 
the man, at least one of his occasional companions 
became convinced that he did not prevaricate con- 
sciously. His was simply a case of an over-grown 
and exuberant imagination. Given a tiny bit of 
fact as a starter, that imagination began to caper 
about without let or hindrance until the most in- 
credible story resulted. He was a great comrade, 
always good-natured, always personally interested 
in the fishing, a lover of the woods and the water, 
ready at all times with an interesting story and 



190 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

never telling the same one twice. What more can 
one reasonably ask in an oarsman? 

In earlier days he had lived in another part of 
the state, and most of his alleged adventures were 
localized on or near Clearwater Lake. As accu- 
rately as we could compute, the fish which he 
claimed to have caught in this one lake would have 
been sufficient to cover the southern peninsula of 
Michigan to a depth of seventeen feet, six inches, 
and then leave some four hundred fish unused. 
One of the most fascinating of his many de- 
lightful yarns concerned his adventure with a giant 
pickerel : 

" Cousin Jim Smith and I," the narrator began, 
" were fishin' one lowery day on Clearwater Lake 
in a cranky little boat, when Jim hooked on to a 
pick'rel. The fish put up a tough fight and Jim 
got excited and kept standin' up in the boat and I 
a-yellin' to him to se'down. Bimeby Jim got 'im 
into the boat, and then jumped up again, and over 
we went. When I saw we were goin' I grabbed for 
the line and got holt just above the spoon. That 
pick'rel pulled and I hung on and he took me clear 
to the bottom in eighteen foot of water. When we 
got down there, I grabbed that fish with both hands, 
tucked him under my left arm, gave a big spring 
and shot up to the top of the water. What does 
that pick'rel do as soon as we reached the top, 
but slip out from under my arm and make for 
the bottom again, me hangin' on to the line close 



SKEGEMOG POINT 191 

to the spoon. When we reached the bottom I 
tucked him under my arm again, gave another 
spring, came to the top; the fish squirmed out again, 
and — well, I don't know how many times we 
made the trip up and back, but just when I was 
about tuckered, some fellows in another boat came 
up and pulled us both in. That pick'rel weighed 
twenty-two pounds." 

The thoughtful critic will easily separate the 
element of historic fact from the mythical accre- 
tions in this story, and be able to retain Jim and a 
fishing trip and a big " pick'rel," even if compelled 
to reject the account of the numerous subaqueous 
excursions. 

In many of the larger inland lakes of Michigan 
lake-trout may be found, and summer visitors vary 
the sport of bass fishing with excursions after 
trout. Early in the season these fish are found in 
shallow water, along the shore, and may be taken 
by ordinary trolling; but as the weather grows 
warm the trout retreat to the deepest part of the 
lake, where they can be captured only by some un- 
usual means. The method employed does not 
appeal strongly to a true sportsman, but he can 
afford to try it, once, at least, for the sake of the 
novelty. At the foot of Elk Lake lived an old man 
who was a past-master in the art of taking these 
deep-lying trout, and to him the visitor turned 
when he grew satiated with bass fishing and sighed 
for new worlds to conquer. The old fisherman has 



192 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

a big, heavy boat, in the back end of which he has 
fixed a windlass holding a thousand feet of fine, 
copper wire. The trout are lying in about three 
hundred feet of water, and no ordinary line will 
allow the trolling spoon to sink deep enough to 
reach those dim recesses. With all the copper wire 
paid out, the old man rows slowly over the deepest 
parts of the lake, while the tourist sits holding the 
handle of the windlass, ready to begin turning at 
the least suspicion of a strike. Now and then there 
is a false alarm, and the excited fisherman cranks in 
a thousand feet of wire only to find a piece of wood 
or weed fastened to the spoon-hook. When, by 
chance, a trout is hooked, the sensation differs little 
from that experienced in winding up a bucket of 
water from a deep well. The fish has not travelled 
far in his involuntary journey through the water 
before he loses all ambition, fills with water and 
becomes no more obstreperous than any other in- 
animate object would be when fastened to sixty 
rods of line. These trout are delicious eating, and 
run as high as twenty-five pounds, or even more 
in weight. 

Other trout, the real, speckled brook-trout, are 
found in the streams flowing into the lake, and 
more than one delightful day was spent in pursuit 
of them. After all, there is no other fishing quite 
like that. It is not altogether because brook-trout 
are the cleanliest, handsomest of fish, or that they 
are so gamey and so toothsome that this sport is 



SKEGEMOG POINT 193 

easily the prime favourite with fishermen. The 
brook itself is a joy. Just to company with it 
makes life worth while. It chatters to you, laughs 
at you, plays hide-and-go-seek with you, and never 
gets to be an old story. Sitting on an old root, 
just where a log fallen across the stream makes a 
good hiding-place for the shy fish, it doesn't matter 
very much whether you catch anything or not. The 
checkers of sunlight are dancing all about you, a 
red squirrel is scolding at you from a neighbouring 
tree, a mink may go stealing by if you are quiet, 
and over all is a great peace which steals into the 
heart, filling it with profound contentment. 

One clay we followed far up the brook, so far 
that when the night fell and we saw a farmer's 
home across the fields, it was deemed wise to seek 
lodging there for the night rather than to attempt 
the long trip back to the Point through the dark- 
ness. The farmer and- his wife were hospitable 
and kindly, furnished us with an appetizing supper 
and. later on, showed us to a tiny bed-room under 
the eaves. It was not the fault of the house-wife, 
for the buildings were old, but a brief stay in that 
bed proved beyond peradventure that it had been 
preempted. We did not "fight and run away"; 
we ran without even beginning to fight. Stealing 
quietly down stairs we made for the neighbouring 
barn and the haymow, where we slept untroubled 
by anything more vicious than an occasional 
"daddy-long-legs." Then, in the early morning, 



194 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

back to the brook again and to trout that fairly 
tumbled over one another in their eagerness to grab 
the " Silver Doctor " as the light rod sent it flitting 
to and fro over the face of the stream. 

When one of the guests proposed, one evening, 
that we all go on an excursion up the lakes the 
next day, there was hearty and unanimous assent. 
The lakes that wash the shores of Skegemog Point 
are only two of a series, all connected by thorough- 
fares. A steamer of light draught can go the whole 
length of the chain, some twenty-five miles or more. 
The next morning proved ideal for such a trip. 
The sky was a deep blue with just enough fleecy 
clouds in it to furnish the needed contrast. The 
wind set little wavelets to dancing on every inch 
of the lake, but never grew troublesome and un- 
pleasant. The farmers were at work in their grain 
fields on either shore, the luncheon was excellent, 
and nothing occurred to mar the pleasure of the 
day. Why write of an experience so common and 
so uneventful? Just because of what the day 
brought to one member of the little company. 

Among the excursionists was a man in middle 
life whose mother had gone home to God the 
previous Christmas-time. He had seen the light 
go out of her eyes, had held her hand in his as 
she breathed her last, had stood by the new-made 
grave in the village cemetery as they lowered the 
casket into the earth. The snow lay deep upon the 
ground and was steadily falling as the friends 



SKEGEMOG POINT 195 

turned away from the burial and, Christian man 
though he was, that son could not feel that his 
mother was. Have you ever felt that one who has 
been a part of your life, is not only dead, but has 
utterly and entirely ceased to be? He told himself 
that she whom he had loved so passionately was 
safe in our Father's house, and he believed it — but 
he could not feel it. The days and weeks and 
months had come and gone, and still there had 
come to his heart — whatever his head might affirm 
— no comforting sense that his mother still lived, 
safe-sheltered in a better country. He was sitting 
by himself that day, far up in the bow of the boat, 
drinking in the beauty of earth and sky and lake. 
It all brought back other and golden days when 
he and his mother had been together on the ma- 
jestic St. Lawrence, and then, all at once — She was 
at hand. He felt her presence like a benediction. 
He heard no voice, saw no vision; but somehow 
his soul sensed her nearness, and his sore heart 
knew a comfort that has never departed and never 
lessened in the years that have come and gone 
since that hour. 



IN THE 

ALGOMA WOODS 
—AND BEFORE 




XV 

IN THE ALGOMA WOODS— AND 
BEFORE 



H 




AVE you ever taken the Georgian 
Bay trip ? " asked the General 
Passenger Agent when we sought 
his advice as to our annual outing. 
" The scenery is beautiful and the 
fishing all that heart could wish." 
So it came to pass that we boarded the steamer 
at Sault Ste. Marie for the round trip of Georgian 
Bay, our tickets including generous stop-over privi- 
leges. Undoubtedly " palatial " is the proper term 
to use in describing a passenger steamer, but having 
never lived in a palace we are unable to judge of 
the fitness of the appellation as applied to this 
particular boat. We can affirm, however, that we 
were very comfortable, and that the scenery quite 
equalled our high expectations. So many people 
have made this trip and it has been described so 
199 



200 DAYS IN THE OPEN 



frequently and so well, that the eulogistic possibil- 
ities of the English language were long ago ex- 
hausted in praise of the beauty of this unsalted 
sea. 

It will be enough to say that we made the regu- 
lation trip and were quite orthodox in the matter 
of admiration. The moments of enthusiam over 
the scenery were interspersed with periods of deep 
reflection; for somewhere along the course of the 
steamer we had decided to stop off for a stay of 
some weeks. Where should it be? We had 
started with a notion that the choice would lie 
between Pantanguishene and Parry Sound; but the 
former place failed to make a strong appeal, and 
at Parry Sound there were too many people and 
too few fish. 

On our way down we had touched at Manito- 
waning. When and where had we heard of this 
place? Carefully overhauling the odds and ends 
stowed away in the chambers of memory, we came 
at last upon a glowing account, given us some years 
before by a fisherman friend, of a vacation spent 
at Manitowaning. Much of what he said had been 
forgotten, but not his praise of the fishing. When 
the captain of the steamer assured us that there 
was a comfortable hotel in the little village, the 
matter was settled, and Manitowaning it was. It 
may be just as well to exhibit the " fly in the oint- 
ment " at once, and have done with it. The hotel 
had a bar, and the drinking and the drunkenness 



IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 201 

went far towards marring our enjoyment of this 
otherwise most delightful spot. 

Manitou Lake, three miles from the village, 
swarms with little-mouth bass. One can hire a rig 
for a dollar and a half for the day, and many were 
the hours spent in close and delightful intercourse 
with the inhabitants of this beautiful body of water. 
Bass are freaky fish, and one never knows just 
when they will take a notion to scorn all efforts 
at their capture. One day Sue and the writer 
drove over to the lake, and those bass took every- 
thing that was offered. In a little sandy bay, 
where the water was not over four feet deep, we 
anchored and began fishing with minnows. So 
eager were the fish that both of us were kept busy 
hauling in the victims and putting on fresh bait. 
The Senior decided to try a gaudy, artificial fly, 
and the bass grabbed it with utter disregard of the 
fact that it resembled nothing which they had ever 
seen before. The fishing went forward so fast 
and furiously that it was finally agreed to throw 
back every bass that was not clearly of three 
pounds in weight, or more. Urged on by the sport 
of that day, the whole family started bright and 
early the next morning to duplicate the delightful 
experience. Alas ! some mysterious change had 
come over the " spirit of their dream " in fishdom. 
Not a bass could be found in the little sandy bay 
where they had thronged only a short twenty-four 
hours before and, after a day of arduous toil, the 



202 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

net results were five bass, not one over two pounds. 
If the fisherman were to find an earthly paradise 
it would be where he could catch trout from one 
side of his boat and little-mouth bass from the 
other. Next in attractiveness to this unrealized 
ideal must be placed the spot where these two 
species of game fish may both be found within a 
radius of a few miles. In this respect Manito- 
waning fills the bill. Although the village is on an 
island — Grand Manitoulin — trout streams abound, 
and among these the one flowing out of Manitou 
Lake was highly recommended by local sportsmen. 
The favourite point was some fifteen miles distant, 
and we were advised to drive over in the afternoon, 
stay all night at a farmer's nearby, getting the 
evening and morning fishing. That sounded at- 
tractive, and was promptly tried out. There may 
be lazier horses than the one we drove that day, 
but if so they should be promptly executed for the 
crime of putting an unendurable strain on the 
driver's good nature. But we finally arrived at 
our destination, and could hardly wait to stable 
Bucephalus, so eager were we to begin operations 
with the trout. It was a sizable stream, with much 
quick water in sight as we crossed the bridge and, 
in anticipation, we saw the big string of noble fish 
that we would carry proudly back to Manitowaning 
on the morrow. Must it be told? When it was 
nine o'clock that night and too dark to distinguish 
a favourable pool from a mud-puddle, we turned 



IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 203 

towards the farm-house not only without a trout, 
but not having had one rise in response to the in- 
calculable number of times that the alluring flies 
had been cast. The next morning, at sunrise, we 
were on the stream again, and four hours of faith- 
ful fishing brought in return two small trout which 
had evidently escaped from some asylum for 
feeble-minded fish. 

On our way out we had noticed an attractive 
looking stream which we crossed some ten miles 
from Manitowaning. Just by the bridge over this 
stream stood the remains of an old mill, half fallen 
down and with the timbers of the clam furnishing 
ideal hiding places for trout. When this spot was 
reached on the return trip the pull was too strong 
to be resisted and, hitching the apology for a horse 
to a nearby fence, preparations were made for a 
foray upon the unsuspecting fish. Fly-casting was 
out of the question and, after choosing a new snood 
of double gut and covering the hook with an ex- 
ceedingly plethoric angleworm, the bait was cau- 
tiously dropped into the rushing waters at the 
upper side of the ruins of the flume. Slowly the 
line was paid out and the lure allowed to go far 
down out of sight. Zip! Yank! Tug! — and it's all 
over. Under the conditions, any such thing as 
playing the fish was out of the question, and the 
straight-away pull parted that new snood as if it 
had been made of a single strand of cotton thread. 
Our humiliation was complete, and with a thor- 



204 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

onghly chastened spirit the horse was untied and 
the homeward journey resumed. That night as 
we told the champion fisherman of the village of 
the experience at the old mill, he poured a little 
balm upon our sore spirit by exclaiming, " That's 
no trout, that's a whale. There isn't a fisherman 
within twenty- live miles of the old mill who has 
not hooked that fish and lost him." Strange, isn't 
it, how other men's ill fortune takes some measure 
of the sting from our own? 

But this is no tale of woe. On another day, 
and on the same stream that flows by the old mill, 
the elect-lady and her unworthy consort spent hours 
that are a joy to recall. It was only eleven miles 
to the point recommended by our friendly adviser, 
and the horse was reasonably ambitious. We had 
laid in a supply of provisions and took along a skil- 
let. A perfect day and perfect comradeship, plenty 
to eat and the novelty of unexplored territory, 
made it certain that, fish or no fish, the hours would 
pass pleasantly. As so frequently happens when we 
are not very particular whether the fish bite or not, 
they elected to be friendly. The stream where we 
visited it ran through meadow and pasture-land, 
with a luxuriant growth of alders along its banks. 
The open spaces afforded opportunities for my 
lady to try her hand at trout fishing, and the other 
member of the party could wade the stream and 
test the more inaccessible places. The water was 
almost ice-cold, the stream having its rise less than 



IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 205 

a mile away in a great, bubbling spring. Owing 
to the colour of the water the stream is called the 
" Bluejay." 

When noon came, a fire was kindled in a se- 
cluded spot close by the running brook. Coffee! 
You never tasted any like it. Fried trout ! Why are 
they never so appetizing as when cooked and eaten 
in the open? We lingered long over that dinner, 
and the writer would fain linger a little over that 
day even now when it is only a memory. He has 
known many happy days; days which are golden 
as he looks back upon them across the years; but 
among them all no day spent in the out-of-doors, 
in touch with fields and stream and sky, stands 
out more clearly and alluringly against the back- 
ground of yesterday than that passed with the 
dearest woman in the world upon the banks of the 
Bluejay. The sun was low in the west as we 
started homeward, and from the summit of a low 
hill over which the road led, we looked north and 
eastward over miles of woodland and cultivated 
fields, and saw in the distance the glistening waters 
of the bay. Yes, there is the lighthouse at Manito- 
waning, and the children are watching for us. In 
spite of the alluring beauty of the scene, something 
more attractive awaits us yonder. We must 
hasten. 

Before leaving home it had been decided that 
all but one member of the family should spend a 
portion of the vacation time in visiting old friends. 



206 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

Accordingly, when Sault Ste. Marie was reached, 
the devotee of rod and reel turned his face towards 
the north, while the wife and children took steamer 
for Chicago. The trip into the woods was not 
undertaken alone, for a fisherman friend who shall 
be known as Jim, one of the best of comrades, was 
waiting at the Canadian " Soo " to bear us com- 
pany on the visit to the Algoma woods. What 
name, if any, the railroad bears which runs from 
the " Soo " sixty miles northeast, we do not know. 
The company does not depend upon passenger 
traffic for revenue, for that would mean bank- 
ruptcy. The road is used for hauling out logs, with 
the suggestion now and then made that some day it 
will be extended to Hudson's Bay. The day before 
we were to go up the line, a trestle had been par- 
tially burned, and the train crept fearfully over 
the half-repaired structure. We were probably 
some five or six hours running the sixty miles 
which brought us to Trout Lake and the shack 
where we were to stop. 

Through the kind offices of the Superintendent 
of the Algoma Railroad we had been able to secure 
accommodations with a forest ranger, who had a 
comfortable cabin and was an excellent cook. It 
was the only building for many miles around, and 
Edwards, the ranger, must know some lonely 
hours, especially during the long winters. Lest 
others may share the delusion of a friend who 
said that he wondered we did not starve at such 



IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 207 

a long distance from market, listen to the bill of 
fare : plenty of good bread and butter, eggs, bacon, 
toast, trout, with blueberries and raspberries ad 
libitum. Less than eighty rods away was a lumber 
camp where we could get milk and cream, and in 
return for trout the cook kept us supplied with 
delicious blueberry pies. The man who is on 
friendly terms with the cook for a logging camp 
need never suffer from hunger. 

The first night after our arrival we were 
awakened by a knocking at the door. Upon being 
admitted the visitor told of a sick child which had 
been brought up from the city in hopes that the 
change might prove beneficial. The mother and 
child were living in a tent and they feared the little 
one was dying. Had we any medicine? We had, 
and he departed with it. The next morning the 
baby was reported as being better, and the follow- 
ing Sunday when we were invited to dinner at the 
logging camp, the mother and child were at table 
with us. When we saw that mother feeding baked 
beans, boiled ham, pickles and pie, to a child that 
had recently been at the point of death with cholera 
infantum, we had an unexpressed conviction that 
it would take something more than cholera-mixture 
to save the child this time. However, so far as we 
could learn, the little one survived in spite of its 
mother's folly. Possibly ham and pie are specifics 
in this disease. 

The country here is broken, rocky hills of con- 



208 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

siderable size almost surrounding the lake. Neigh- 
bouring lakes are to be found in nearly every 
direction, one of them less than half a mile away. 
From these lakes trout of large size may be taken, 
but not with the fly; at least at the time of year 
when we visited them. They seemed lazy and 
somewhat indifferent even to the minnows offered 
them. Now and then one would deign to respond 
to our invitations, but it was never with any en- 
thusiasm. It will always remain an open question 
whether the huge trout that coquetted with Jim's 
hook, one day, was a reality or a phantom. We 
were on a lake some three miles from camp and 
had taken a few fish. Fishing in some fifteen feet 
of water, Jim had a strike and brought a big fish 
so near to the surface that he was plainly seen by 
the three of us, and then the exasperating rascal 
quietly sank down out of sight. The bait was im- 
mediately lowered and a prompt response secured 
in the shape of another strike. Again the trout 
came within clear view, and again, without any 
apparent haste, disappeared. How many times this 
was repeated deponent saith not; but the repetition 
of this ungracious performance went on until even 
Jim's patience was exhausted and we went on our 
way. 

It was on this lake, near the outlet, that we 
came upon a beaver-house, recently built. We did 
not get a sight of the shy animals, but saw many 
evidences of their work in the stumps and freshly 



IN THE ALGOMA WOODS 209 

cut pieces of wood. A well-beaten path led from 
their timber reserve to the edge of the water, and 
they evidently floated the timber to their building 
some twenty rods away. The discovery of this 
colony called out numerous stories from the forest 
ranger of his experiences with the beaver, in the 
recounting of which he referred to the " outlaw " 
beaver which lives alone and in a hole in the bank 
of some stream or lake. The Indian theory is that 
this exile has been driven out by the members of 
his family on account of his bad disposition or for 
some crime committed against the society of which 
he is a member. We must confess to a measure of 
skepticism as to the absolute trustworthiness of this 
bit of natural history, and only the testimony of 
a well-known naturalist established it in our minds 
as an indubitable fact. 

The best August fishing in this section is to be 
found either in the streams or just where they 
empty into the lakes. Here the sprightly, always- 
up-and-doing brook trout furnish real sport. In 
the Chippeway River, outlet of Trout Lake, we 
made good catches, and where a spring brook 
empties into the lake, sport that met our highest 
desires was found. One spot on the river made an 
indelible impression. It was where the stream, 
rushing against a wall of rock, was sharply de- 
flected, forming a deep and shaded pool. The 
timber grew so densely all about that it was 
seemingly impossible to fish this pool from the 



210 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

shore, and its depth made wading out of the 
question. By dint of much climbing and fighting 
with underbrush, the top of the rock was reached, 
from which point of vantage one could look down 
upon the pool and the big trout lying near the 
bottom. While the rod could not be used on 
account of the brush, it was possible to drop a line 
into the water from the over-hanging rock, and 
however unsportsmanlike this may have been, it 
was done with most satisfactory results. Eight 
large trout were pulled up, hand over hand, from 
this secluded retreat. 

The mouth of the cold brook yielded the largest 
returns of any one spot found during our stay. 
Just as the sun was going down, to send a cast of 
two or three flies dancing over this water was to 
be rewarded by doubles frequently, while rarely 
did the flies go untouched. Then back to the 
cabin and, after one of Edwards' good suppers and 
a chat about the roaring fire, to bed and to the 
sleep that " knits up the ravelled sleeve of care " 
and sends one forth to the new day buoyant and 
rejoicing. 



IN 

THE VALLEY 

OF 

THE DWYFOR 








XVI 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE DWYFOR 




'HEN our steamer, the " Tunisian," 
docked at Liverpool after a quick 
and pleasant voyage, the two 
brothers of my good friend and 
travelling companion, Dr. W., 
were waiting to greet him. It 
was something like half a century since my friend 
had left his home among the Welsh hills to devote 
his fine mind and loving heart to the ministry of 
Jesus Christ in America. Were this the place, one 
might write many a chapter concerning the faith- 
fulness and fruit fulness of that ministry which has 
brought such priceless blessings to so many lives 
and helped so largely in building the Kingdom of 
God in the new world. However, it is of his early 
home rather than of the man, that we are to write 
just now. 

It was because the writer was his brother's friend 
213 



2U DAYS IN THE OPEN 

that one of these strong-faced Welshmen extended 
a cordial invitation to be his guest when, later on, 
Dr. W. should visit his native town. So it came 
to pass that after the great meetings in London 
were over, we started for the little village of 
Garndolbenmaen where Dr. W. was born and had 
spent his earlier years. 

We had counted not a little on making the ascent 
of Snowdon, and in spite of the cloudy, threaten- 
ing weather, ascend it we did. Boarding the toy- 
like car on the little narrow-gauge road, we were 
slowly hauled up the mountain side. We had hardly 
begun the ascent when the country about began to 
unroll like a panorama below us. Yonder is a 
thread-like stream, and beyond it the mines with 
their piles of slack marking each opening. Higher 
up, the clouds were all about us, shutting out every- 
thing but the immediate vicinity, and before we 
reached the summit, rain had begun to fall. The 
only relief to our disappointment was when, for 
a moment, the clouds broke and we looked far over 
mountains and valleys. Down at our feet and 
leading away towards the east was a white road on 
either side of which were little squares of cultivated 
fields. Towards the south loomed the tops of high 
hills, the sides of which were hidden by the clouds, 
while towards the west we caught just a glimpse 
of the Straits of Menna. 

A little later we were riding along the shores of 
the Straits and looking across to Anglesea. To 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE DWYFOR 215 

those familiar with religious work in Great Britain, 
one figure stands out, giant-like, whenever the 
name of that island is heard. Here Christmas 
Evans prayed and preached, turning many hun- 
dreds from sin to righteousness under the sway 
of his matchless eloquence. Farther on we passed 
Carnarvon Castle where, according to a tradition 
now generally discredited, Edward II, first Prince 
of Wales, was born. 

Night had fallen when we reached the Garn 
station, a mile or more from the village which 
straggles up the side of one of the foot-hills of the 
Snowdon range. A cheerful fire was blazing in 
the open fire-place when we entered the house, and 
it seemed a symbol of the warm and generous 
hospitality extended to the American stranger. 
There is something indescribably attractive about 
one of these Welsh homes. Perhaps " hominess " 
describes it best. The absence of ceremony and the 
presence of a spirit of kindliness and cordiality put 
the stranger at his ease from the first. The days 
spent under that roof passed all too swiftly, and, 
as we look back upon them, they set the heart to 
glowing. Since then the master of the house has 
passed into the great silence, but no change that 
time works can efface the memory of his gracious 
and considerate hospitality. 

Sunday in North Wales is a day for rest and 
worship, not for golf and picnics. It was on a 
Saturday evening that we reached Garn, and it 



216 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

seemed like a " deserted village " when we looked 
up and down the street the next morning. Any 
such assumption was thoroughly dissipated later on 
when the hour for morning service came. Then 
people gathered from every direction for miles 
around, and when we entered the plain, Non-Con- 
formist Church-house it was filled to the doors, 
galleries and all. The visitor could not understand 
songs or prayers or sermon, for all were in the 
Welsh tongue. When the sermon began my 
thoughtful friend, who sat beside me, jotted down 
the salient points of the discourse as the preacher 
proceeded, so that the handicapped American 
gained a very fair idea of the outline. It was not 
the sermon, however, but the singing that made the 
strongest impression. Needless to say, not a word 
could be understood, but somehow it reached the 
heart. The dominance of the minor would have 
been somewhat depressing had it not been for the 
occasional evident exultation and rejoicing which 
swept forth to fill the church. 

It was at the evening service that the most pro- 
found impression was made upon the writer. The 
second service of the day closes before it becomes 
necessary to light the lamps. The sun was low in 
the west, when, after the sermon, a man came down 
from the gallery and stood up before the pulpit to 
sing. That song, in an unfamiliar tongue, melted 
the heart and filled the eyes with tears. The rays 
of the setting sun fell through the western windows 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE DWYFOR 217 

upon the singer, and we thought of one in a far- 
off land and time whose face did shine when he 
returned to his people from talking with God. 
Later on our host told us that this man had been 
a popular concert singer whose heart God had 
touched during the great revival which had then 
just swept over Wales. The song to which we 
had listened told of the joy of the wanderer when 
he had come back from the " far country " to his 
Father's house. 

English is rarely heard on the streets of Garn, 
and not a few of the people of this section are 
unable to speak anything but the Welsh. On one 
of our days of wandering about the country we 
met a woman in the highway with whom Dr. W. 
talked in her native tongue. He then told his 
friend that we would stop at the home of this 
woman a little farther on, and excused himself for 
a moment while he visited a neighbouring farm- 
house. Left together, the Welsh woman and the 
American were somewhat at a loss as to how con- 
versation might be carried on. It was the woman, 
of course, who solved the difficulty. She knew 
one English word, and looking the visitor in the 
eye, she smiled and said, "America! America!" 
The stranger could not even say " Yes," in Welsh, 
but he said it in his best Yankee and his answering 
smile was in the universal language. Dr. W. said 
afterwards that this woman's sons were in the 
United States, and we found few homes from 



218 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

which at least one had not gone forth to the new 
world. It was for the sake of her boys, in part, 
at least, that this woman overwhelmed us with 
attentions when we sat in her home a little later 
on. Such milk we never expect to taste again. 
When Dr. W. said that she had served us with the 
" strippings," he was compelled to explain that the 
Welsh dairymen keep separate the last of the milk 
taken from the cow — the " strippings " — as this 
is much richer than that given earlier in the milk- 
ing. Henceforth, give us " strippings." 

As one comes to know something of the con- 
ditions obtaining in Wales, the only wonder is that 
they do not all emigrate. The land is generally 
owned by non-residents, and the rentals are high. 
If the tenant rescues a field from the rocks and 
brush, thereby increasing productivity, the rental 
is at once increased. Every one must pay towards 
the support of the Established Church. On the 
Sunday which we spent in Garn, the two Non- 
Conformist churches of the village were crowded, 
while only fifteen people were present at the ser- 
vices held by the Church of England; yet every 
man of these Calvinistic Methodists and Baptists 
was taxed for the support of the establishment. 
No more gross injustice in the name of religion 
was ever perpetrated than that from which the 
Non-Conformists of Wales suffer. 

The valley of the Dwyfor is an idyll of peaceful 
beauty. One afternoon we climbed the steep hill- 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE DWYFOR 219 

side back of the village, and stood upon a giant 
rock jutting out from among its lesser fellows, 
where, when a mere lad, Dr. W. practised preach- 
ing to an audience made up of rocks and stones and 
grazing sheep. The spot was of interest not only 
because of the associations but for the extended 
view that it afforded. We faced the village and 
the valley, and saw the glistening waters of the sea 
in the distance. Here and there a patch of woods 
could be seen, but for the most part one beheld only 
carefully cultivated and fruitful fields. The 
Dwyfor is not a great river save in its quiet beauty. 

Are you built so that every stream of water, even 
the output of the melting snow in the springtime, 
seems to say "Fish!"? Whether fortunately or 
unfortunately, the writer has never been able to 
keep his imagination from capering about when in 
the presence of lake or river. The shining Dwyfor 
had an irresistible appeal, and our host was sub- 
jected to cross-examination. 

" Are there any fish in the Dwyfor? " 

"Yes." 

"What kind?" 

" Trout." 

" Would I be permitted to fish it ? " 

" Yes, by taking out a license." 

" Have you any tackle ? " 

" Certainly, and you are more than welcome to 
use it." 

The rod was heavier and stiffer than the Amer- 



220 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

ican was accustomed to use, and the flies were 
absolute strangers; but, nothing daunted, the fish- 
erman paid for his license and betook himself to the 
river. It is probable that Dr. W. would have little 
choice between going fishing and serving a term in 
jail; but the unselfish man trudged patiently along 
with his friend. If ever a stream was clearer or its 
banks more absolutely lacking in everything that 
would screen the fisherman, it is unknown to the 
writer. The sky was almost cloudless, no wind 
rippled the surface of the water, and we have a 
suspicion that every trout in the Dwyfor saw us 
when we started from Garn. At all events, they 
had hied them to safe retreats from which they 
looked contemptuously upon the fisherman and his 
futile efforts to fool them. One deluded fish, 
nearly as long as one's finger, did lose his mental 
poise for a moment, just long enough to grab the 
fly. The verdict of temporary lunacy was promptly 
rendered by both Dr. W. and the fisherman, and 
the trout was returned to the water. Fishing in 
the Dwyfor was a flat failure, so far as returns 
in fish go. 

But the fish were not the only returns of the 
day. When it was evident even to the most opti- 
mistic that fishing was wasted effort, Dr. W. sug- 
gested that we were not far from a " cromlech," 
and off we started. A mile or so along the road, 
and then across the fields, and we came to one of 
the many Druidical remains to be found in Great 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE DWYFOR 221 

Britain. The circle was small, not more than ten 
feet in diameter, all the stones standing and having 
a large, flat stone covering the top. Who were the 
builders? Why was it built? No voice comes 
from the weather-beaten stones, and wise men give 
differing answers. 

The sun is almost touching the summit of the 
western hills when we reach Garn. We have 
tramped many miles, made a colossal failure of 
fishing, but there has been delightful comradeship, 
the blue sky, fair fields, hours in God's open, and 
we are happy. 



BOY LIFE 

IN 

THE OPEN 






XVII 



BOY LIFE IN THE OPEN 




"rj^HERE'S a clam!" 

" Where? I don't see it ! Can't 
I get it?" 

Of course he could get it, for 
the water in the creek was shal- 
low and the father remembered 
his own boyhood too well to deny the little chap's 
request. So the boat was stopped while the boy, 
arm bared to the shoulder, reached down to the 
sandy bottom of the stream and captured his first 
clam. 

You don't see anything interesting in that? So 
much the worse for you. It interested the boy, and 
the boy's interest was quite enough to enlist and 
hold the interest of the father. If you do not yet 
know that whatever appeals to the mind of a child 
is important, however insignificant that thing may 
be in itself, you have something to learn. 
225 



226 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

The two, father and boy, had left the log cabin 
among the pines soon after breakfast in search of 
minnows for use in fishing. When they started out 
the boy went along simply because the two were 
chums and almost inseparable companions. The 
father had no thought of what that stream might 
mean to the lad, and he learned a lesson that morn- 
ing which he will never forget. He had spent his 
boyhood in the country and had never stopped to 
think that the sights and sounds along this stream 
would all be unfamiliar to his city-bred son. 

They had not gone far up the stream before an- 
other discovery was made, and two baby snails 
joined the clam on the seat. Then a crawfish was 
seen scuttling over the gravel and was added to the 
collection. By this time the boy was bubbling over 
with interest and enthusiasm, but when, rounding 
a bend in the stream, a turtle was discovered sun- 
ning himself on a bit of drift-wood, it was evident 
that the wonders of this wonderful stream had 
reached their climax. Cautiously the boat was 
moved toward the turtle's resting-place, but just be- 
fore he was reached he quietly slid off into the 
water. It would not do to leave the lad in such an 
ocean of disappointment as swallowed him up when 
that turtle disappeared, so, with landing net in 
hand, they watched for his reappearance. It seemed 
hours to the boy before the beady eyes of the turtle 
were seen looking up at them from the moss where 
he had found a hiding-place. Then a careful man- 



BOY LIFE IN THE OPEN 227 

ipulation of the net, a sudden scoop, and the turtle 
was scrambling about in the bottom of the boat. 

" See him snap! Will he bite me? Look at the 
markings of his shell ! How old do you suppose 
he is? What do turtles eat? I'm going to take 
him home ! " 

Questions and exclamations crowded and jostled 
each other as the eager lad studied his latest prize. 

When the captives had been carried to the cabin 
and duly admired by other members of the family, 
the question arose as to what should be done with 
them. Throw them back? Eager protests from 
their owner. When he was finally convinced that 
they were not altogether adapted to serve as pocket 
pieces, he proposed an aquarium, and aquarium it 
was. An ancient and discarded dish-pan was 
found, the holes filled with rags, water and rocks 
supplied, and clams, crawfish, snails and turtles 
were compelled to live in seeming amity, whatever 
their personal feelings may have been. Later on 
other turtles were added to the collection, and a 
yellow lizard with a blue tail gave the finishing 
touch to this conglomerate of animal life. 

How shall we educate the young? This ques- 
tion, holding first place in the hearts of parents and 
lovers of children, elicits clamorous and often con- 
tradictory answers. The advocate of " cultural " 
studies finds a sturdy antagonist in the defender 
of " vocational " training, and school boards make 
frantic efforts to please everybody, and succeed, as 



DAYS IN THE OPEN 

is common in such cases, in pleasing nobody. 
Meanwhile, our children are the helpless and un- 
fortunate victims of a series of experiments, as the 
school authorities try out different educational 
theories. 

Far be it from the writer to propose a solution 
of the difficulty or to proffer any panacea for our 
educational ills; but in all humility he ventures to 
suggest the desirability of making it possible for 
the child to know something about the world in 
which he lives. Book-learning, essential as it is, 
is not enough if we would fit the child to live the 
larger and more joyous life. When we have 
studied literature and art and philosophy and 
science, when we have become familiar with the 
great cities with their bewildering sights and dis- 
tracting sounds, the finest things remain to be dis- 
covered, and these discoveries must be made as we 
stand open-eyed in the presence of God's work- 
manship. 

Hills and streams, woods and flowers, bees and 
birds and butterflies, the flora and fauna of this 
earth where we have our home for a little time, 
should, somehow, be brought into the life of the 
child. The boy who grows up into manhood with- 
out being privileged to know the world of nature 
by personal contact has been robbed. He may be 
intelligent in many things and a useful member of 
society, but he has missed out of life some of its 
deepest satisfactions and purest joys. Indeed, such 




HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YOUR BOYHOOD? 



BOY LIFE IN THE OPEN 229 

an one is not symmetrically educated, and is quite 
likely to be put to shame as the years pass. A 
story is told of a young woman, able to order her 
breakfast in six different languages, who, spend- 
ing some days in the home of a farmer, made most 
mortifying mistakes concerning the common things 
of country life. When, coming down to breakfast 
one morning she discovered a plate of honey on the 
table, she felt that the time had come for a display 
of her knowledge and for the discomfiture of those 
who had laughed at her mistakes, and exclaimed, 
" Ah! I see that you keep a bee." 

Take the witness box! Yes, I am speaking 
to you, middle-aged man, city-dweller, slave to bus- 
iness, familiar with paved streets and great build- 
ings, the honk of automobile horns and the love 
songs of vagrant cats. 

" Were you born in the country? " 

" Yes." 

" Have you forgotten your boyhood? " 

" Forgotten it ! Sometimes I can think of noth- 
ing else, and always something out of that boyhood 
is popping up even in the midst of my business 
undertakings." 

" Do you regret that you were not born in the 
city?" 

"Regret it? Say, you are fooling. I wouldn't 
trade the recollections of my boyhood on the farm 
for the best business block in this city." 

" But it can't be worth anything to you in a busi- 



230 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

ness way. Life in the country doesn't train one 
to manufacture gas engines." 

" Well, I've never stopped to consider what I 
owe in the matter of business success to my boy- 
hood in the country, but now that you raise the 
question, I'm inclined to believe that it gave me 
pretty good training in some ways for the business 
in which I am engaged. 

" When I came into this business at the age of 
twenty I was given a place in the shipping depart- 
ment at a salary of seven dollars per week. Now 
I am at the head of the firm, while many of the 
fellows who were with me in those days are still 
working on salary. You see I had the advantage 
of the city boys in being accustomed to work. On 
the farm I had my regular tasks. Why, when I 
was a little chap I wiped the dishes for mother, 
and when I grew older I had to keep the wood-box 
filled and go after the cows and pick up potatoes 
and — but you know what a lot of things there are 
to do on a farm where 'a boy can help. 

" Now that I think of it, I imagine that I was 
learning application, industry and self-control — 
big assets in business. The city-bred boy has never 
had that schooling. He has not been trained to 
hold himself to hard and continued effort. It is 
not his fault, and I do not know that his parents 
are to be blamed. I have two boys of my own born 
in the city, and one of the questions which per- 
plexes me most is how to provide them with regular 



BOY LIFE IN THE OPEN 231 

tasks that shall develop their sense of responsibility 
and cultivate habits of industry and application. 
Although I could afford to have a man to take care 
of the lawn and attend to the furnace, I have the 
boys do this work for their own sakes. It is good 
as far as it goes, but I am afraid it does not go far 
enough. They have too much time to spend in do- 
ing nothing, and habits of idleness formed in boy- 
hood are likely to stick when one comes to man- 
hood. I do not believe in manufacturing tasks or 
setting them at work which is not real, for boys are 
keen observers and you cannot fool them into be- 
lieving that they are doing something worth while 
when compelled to take wood from one corner of 
the cellar and pile it in another corner, and then 
shift it back again. The man who devises some 
way of supplying real tasks for the boys of the 
well-to-do city families will be a public benefactor. 
" Now, that you have started the discussion of 
this subject, how about the physical health and 
strength that I brought from my country life to 
the work which I am doing? Of course, we have 
our sleeping porches and playgrounds and medical 
inspection in the public schools, and are doing what 
we can to build sound bodies for our city children, 
but I suspect that the out-door life of the country 
boy and his regular exercise and plain food furnish 
a far and away better physical preparation for the 
strenuous work of business life than anything we 
are able to devise for our children in the city. 



232 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

" You never saw my old home, did you ? Well, 
the house stood at the foot of a hill and close by a 
little stream. In the summer time the wild straw- 
berries in the meadow above the orchard were so 
thick that I remember picking a bushel there 
one day. For raspberries and blackberries we 
usually went some three or four miles to Babcock 
Hollow, but once there you could fill a ten-quart 
pail in no time at all, and they were the sweetest, 
most luscious berries you ever tasted. Then, in the 
fall, came apple picking and potato digging and 
corn cutting and nut gathering. There were dozens 
of butternut trees in the pasture-lot through which 
the creek ran, and on Button Hill you could get all 
the chestnuts you wished. Did you ever gather 
beechnuts ? They are so little that picking them up 
by hand is slow work. We used to take three or 
four sheets, spread them under a beech tree, after 
the first frost had opened the burrs, and then one 
of the boys would climb the tree and pound the 
limbs, sending the nuts down upon the sheets in 
showers. 

" But the winters ! When there was a good 
crust on the snow you could start on your sled at 
the patch of woods on the top of the hill, nearly a 
mile away, and ride right into our barnyard. I've 
done it many a time. Skating! We could go al- 
most straight away for miles on the river. One 
night when Jim Gilbert's people were away from 
home I got permission to stay all night with him. 



BOY LIFE IN THE OPEN 233 

I took my skates along and after supper we came 
down to the river and skated. The moon was full 
and it was almost as light as day. I must have been 
careless, for I skated too near an open place and 
broke through. Jim was just behind me, and, be- 
fore he could stop or change his course, he had 
stubbed his toe on me and in he went, head first. 
The water was shallow, so there was no danger, 
but we had a mile to walk in our wet clothes, and 
all the way up hill. I remember that our clothes 
were frozen stiff when we reached Jim's house. 
We built a roaring fire, stripped off our wet 
clothes and put on some that were dry, and then 
sat up until one o'clock eating chestnuts and pop- 
corn and talking about what we would do when 
we were men. Jim had an idea that he would be 
a lawyer, but the last time I saw him he was sell- 
ing tooth paste at the county fair. 

" In some ways spring in the country is not re- 
markably attractive. The fields are brown and 
bare and soggy, and the winds cannot fairly be 
called zephyrs. As the frost leaves the ground the 
roads become rivers of mud, and some of the " sink- 
holes " seem bottomless. Early spring is easily 
the most unlovely time of the year in the country, 
but even then life has its brighter side. With the 
first breath of the south wind the sap begins to 
leave the roots of the hard maples and the sugar 
season begins. 



234 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

" Did you ever work in a sugar-bush? No? 
Poor fellow ! You've missed something worth 
while out of your life. I understand that nowa- 
days they evaporate the sap in shallow pans; we 
used to boil it in a big iron kettle. We did not have 
many maples on our place, so I sometimes worked 
for Deacon Bouton, who had the next farm west of 
ours. He had a big sugar-bush, and we carried the 
pails of sap on neck-yokes. When we had a big 
run of sap we had to boil all night as well as during 
the day. I'll never forget one night when we had 
a feast. There were two boys besides myself: Ed 
Bouton, the deacon's son, and John Hammond. Ed 
had brought forty-five hen's eggs and John added 
five goose eggs. We boiled the eggs in the sap, and 
the three of us ate those forty-five hen's eggs and 
started on the goose eggs. For some reason we did 
not relish them. Possibly the hen's eggs had taken 
the keen edge from our appetites. 

" But how I'm running on ! Regret being born in 
the country? Do you know that I can shut my 
eyes and see the hills and meadows and orchard, 
fairer than any ever put in colours on the canvas ? 
I can see the oriole's nest swinging from a branch 
of the big elm in the corner of our yard and the 
nest of the pewee under the bridge. Just across 
the road in the meadow are glorious masses of 
violets, and mother's peonies and sweet pinks beat 
anything I've ever seen since. When I'm dog- 
tired from the day's work it rests me just to think 



BOY LIFE IN THE OPEN 235 

of the quiet and calm and beauty of the old home 
among the hills. 

" And there's another thing that I want to tell 
you : when I go into the country I can enjoy it. 
One of my best friends, born in the city, is bored 
almost to death every time he tries to take a vaca- 
tion in the country. He doesn't know the differ- 
ence between a hard maple and a tamarack, and 
asked me once if a woodchuck was likely to attack 
a human being if not angered. He's afraid of bees 
and garter snakes, and even a friendly old " daddy- 
long-legs " gives him a nervous shock. He can't 
enjoy the fields and flowers, for he was brought 
up on people and bricks. I'd like to be back there 
at the old place this minute. I'll bet I could find 
some raspberries on the bushes that grow in the 
fence corners along the west road. We used to 
string them on timothy stalks as we came home 
from school, and I've never tasted any such berries 
since." 

The witness is through with his testimony and 
we'll submit the case to the jury without argument. 
What do you say, fathers and mothers of the city? 
Shall your children have a chance to learn nature's 
secrets at first hand? Will you give them some 
time in the open every year, where the work of man 
has not elbowed the work of God into a corner and 
out of sight? More, will you help to send the 
children of the poor, children whose playground is 
the city street, and to whom the stories of green 



236 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

fields and limpid streams and flowers that belong 
to any who will gather them, sound like fairy 
tales — will you give to these children of the tene- 
ment and the slums days where the sunshine is not 
filtered through a bank of smoke and all the min- 
istry of God's unspoiled work strengthens them 
for the coming days of toil? 




THE BULLY 
OF THE 
UPPER 
OSWEGATCHIE 




9^=^i 



But should you lure from his 
dark haunt, beneath the 
tangled roots 

Of pendent trees, the monarch of 
the brook, 

Behooves you then to ply your 
finest art. 



At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun 
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death, 
With sullen plunge. At once he darts 

along, 
Deep-struck, and runs out all the length- 
ened line; 
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool, 
Indignant of the guile. With yielding 

hand, 
That feels him still, yet to his furious 

course 
Gives way, you, now retiring, following 

now 
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage; 
Till, floating broad upon his breathless side, 
And to his fate abandoned, to the shore 
You gayly drag your unresisting prise. 
— James Thomson, The Seasons. 





XVIII 

THE BULLY OF THE UPPER 
OSWEGATCHIE 

F the sucker had gone twenty 
feet farther up the little brook on 
his foraging expedition this story 
would not have been written. 
However, by the time he had ap- 
propriated some ten thousand 
trout eggs, the hunger which had urged him into 
the mouth of the brook deserted him, and, as the 
water was too cold for his liking, he made his way 
back to the river where he could take a siesta in the 
pool that he had left that morning. 

Just above the spot where the sucker turned 
about was a bend in the stream, and, passing that, 
you came upon a reach of shallow water running 
over the most beautiful bed of gravel in that whole 
section. It was here that the Bully was born, in the 
afternoon of the very day when destruction in the 

239 



240 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

form of a predatory sucker came so near to him. 
Not that he appeared much like a bully in those first 
hours of conscious existence. In fact he looked 
more like an animated sliver with a sack suspended 
from underneath. He moved slowly about the 
stream in company with a hundred or so other little 
fellows until the sack had disappeared, and then it 
was easy to see that he had the advantage of all 
his comrades in the matter of size at least. 

When they began feeding upon the tiny forms 
of life found in the creek, the Bully soon gained a 
reputation for pugnaciousness. He did not hesitate 
to crowd his best friend away from a larva, and, 
before he was an inch long, he had bitten the left 
pectoral fin from one of his comrades who had ven- 
tured to resist the Bully's attempt to rob him of a 
luscious little snail that he had discovered. One 
day when the Bully was yet a fingerling he joined 
battle with a chub twice his size, and, although he 
lost a part of his tail in the fray, and all the specta- 
tors thought he was whipped before the conflict had 
fairly begun, the thought of giving up never oc- 
curred to him, and he fought until his foe turned 
tail and fled into the river, a quarter of a mile 
away. 

He was still living in the brook and had come 
to be almost four inches in length when he had 
an experience that shook his nerves somewhat. 
As he was resting beside a sod a little worm, all 
bent out of shape, but undeniably of the vermes 



THE BULLY OF THE OSWEGATCHIE Ml 

family, came floating down the stream and he 
promptly grabbed it. Then came a sharp prick in 
his lip and something was pulling him out from 
under the sod. He braced and twisted and threshed 
about, but all in vain. Up he went out of the water, 
all the time doing fancy somersaults such as he 
had never attempted before. A moment later he 
struck the water with a splash and was soon safely 
hidden under the sod again. From his hiding- 
place he watched that worm come floating past him 
again and yet again, but he had learned caution. 
Now that he looked closely, he saw that the worm 
was fastened to the end of a string, and a little 
later he discovered that this string was tied to a 
stick which was in the possession of some creature 
that walked along the bank of the stream. Later 
on he learned that this strange animal was a small 
boy and that all members of this species were his 
enemies. Whether or not he ever relized that he 
owed his life to the fact that the boy had lost the 
last of his store hooks and was using a bent pin that 
day, no one knows. 

All that summer the Bully lived in the brook; but 
when the days grew shorter and it began to freeze 
he moved with his friends into the river. That 
winter, when the river was frozen over except in 
shallow places where the current was swift, he had 
a narrow escape from a mink. He was talking with 
a trout much older and larger than himself about 
the comparative merits of worms and flies as food 



242 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

when a dark form darted towards them with open 
jaws, and, with one snap, his neighbour was cap- 
tured and carried away. This foray caused great 
excitement in the trout colony, and the Bully 
learned for the first time of the existence of rapa- 
cious animals frequenting the banks of the river 
which made their living by capturing unwary trout. 
The following summer he spent in exploring the 
river above the point where the brook joined it. 
Here there were hills crowding close in on either 
side of the river, and rapids were numerous and 
strong. Practice in rushing up the swift water 
brought his muscles to such a state of development 
that every now and then he would spend half an 
hour in jumping out of the water as far as he 
could. In fact he entered a jumping contest held 
under the auspices of the Hemlock Point Trout 
Club late in July, and carried off the first prize, an 
enormous blue-bottle fly. The judges on this occa- 
sion decided that his jump was two and a half times 
his own length which would probably make it some 
twelve inches. It was during this summer that he 
became expert in taking game on the wing. There 
is a tradition among the Oswegatchie trout that on 
one occasion, with a favourable start, he pulled 
down a " devil's darning-needle " that was flying 
eighteen inches above the surface of the water and 
going at the rate of sixty miles an hour. N. B. — 
This is merely a tradition and is unsupported by 
trustworthy historical evidence. 



THE BULLY OF THE OSWEGATCHIE 243 

The bullying tendencies waxed strong during 
this second summer. One dislikes to set it down, 
but it was about this time that he entered upon 
those cannibalistic practices in which he persisted 
for the rest of his life. One dark and chilly day, 
when all the millers and bugs and flies seemed to 
have gone into retreat, noon came and found him 
with a gnawing pain in his stomach which made 
him almost beside himself. Unfortunately when 
his hunger was at its height a little trout that was 
playing tag with some of its fellows happened to 
jostle him. In his anger the Bully snapped at and 
swallowed him. For a moment he was conscience- 
stricken, and then, when he realized what a de- 
licious morsel he had taken to himself, he turned 
to and grabbed up fifteen other little members of 
his family without stopping to take breath. Hence- 
forth he was looked upon as a social outcast by the 
best people in troutdom and his only intimacies were 
among the tough and lawless members of the com- 
munity. Doubtless he brooded over this ostracism, 
and grew bitter as he realized the evident contempt 
in which he was held. At any rate, he waxed more 
and more cantankerous and disagreeable as he grew 
bigger and stronger. 

A record of all the experiences through which 
the Bully passed would fill a volume. Only a few of 
the many can be set down in this brief biography, 
and those the more important ones. When he was 
three years old he was recognized as the boss of the 



244 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

river above the brook. For some time stories had 
come up stream of the prowess of a big trout living 
five miles clown the stream in a mill pond. Con- 
fident in his ability to whip anything that wore fins, 
the Bully started down stream one May morning 
bent upon challenging this far-famed warrior to 
mortal combat. He had gone about one-half the 
distance and had stopped to rest for a little in a 
riffle, head up stream, when a strange looking fly 
came hopping and dancing across the water. It 
was many coloured, but that which attracted him 
most strongly was its body, which shone like bur- 
nished silver. Without the least hesitation, he 
made a grab for it only to feel that same stinging 
in the lip which followed upon his experience with 
the crooked worm when he was a little fellow. 
Fortunately for him he had touched the fly lightly, 
and, while he felt a pull for an instant, it was only 
in the skin of his lip, and that, for some strange 
reason, was torn. He started down stream vowing 
that never again would he snap at a fly with a silver 
body. 

By the second morning he had reached the pond, 
and found himself among strangers. It did not 
take long for him to become involved in a scrap with 
a trout of about his own size from which he quickly 
emerged triumphant. Had the pond not furnished 
seemingly unlimited supplies of fat chubs he 
would have proceeded to give free rein to his 
cannibalistic inclinations; but as it was less trouble 



THE BULLY OF THE OSWEGATCHIE 245 

to catch the chubs than his own blood relations, he 
rilled himself with the former, and then took a nap 
under the shadow of a big stump, the top of which 
stood a little way out of the water. 

A little before sundown, when he was quite re- 
freshed and had begun to think of taking a little 
turn about the pond in search of adventure, he 
heard the sound of many voices, and, looking out 
from his hiding-place, saw a company of trout mov- 
ing in his direction. In the lead was his foe of 
the morning. There, surrounded by an admiring 
crowd, came the biggest trout that Bully had ever 
seen. His under jaw projected far beyond its mate 
and had an ugly upward curve. He was broad 
across the back and thick through and moved with 
all the pride of a conquering hero. " Where is he? 
Show him to me. I'll make mincemeat of the in- 
solent intruder." The booming voice of the big 
fellow left the Bully in no doubt as to the identity 
of the approaching monster. It was the fighter of 
whom he was in search. 

The Bully would have been scared if that pos- 
sibility had not been denied him. Instead of fleeing 
in fear he came out from under cover and shouted : 
" Are you talking about me ? You big bluffer ! 
I'll make you food for the crows." If the truth 
must be told, both the combatants used language 
that was not only exceedingly scurrilous, but shock- 
ingly profane. In this gentle exercise the Bully 
had the best of it and the pond trout became so 



246 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

enraged that he dashed at his enemy with jaws ex- 
tended. The Bully was so busy swearing that he 
came near losing his life. As it was, he dodged 
just in time to prevent those powerful jaws from 
closing upon him, but not quickly enough to escape 
a slashing from two big teeth which laid his side 
open in deep gashes. He was a surprised Bully, but 
not dismayed. 

The battle that followed had no historian. Of 
much that took place, the whirling and darting, the 
snapping and struggling, the reports that have come 
down through the years are somewhat confused 
and even contradictory. It seems clear that at the 
first the Bully had the worst of it. Besides the 
gashes received in the first attack, he lost one fin 
and a piece of his tail early in the fray. The pond 
trout had all the advantage in size and was cheered 
on by his friends; but the Bully's gymnastic exer- 
cises, fighting with the rapids, stood him in good 
stead now. His muscles were steel, while those of 
the pond trout had grown somewhat flabby since he 
had come to content himself with life in the still 
water. As they feinted and charged and whirled 
about, the pond champion began to grow short of 
breath and found increasing difficulty in meeting 
the rushes of the Bully, who seemed to grow more 
agile as the battle raged. Then there came a 
moment when the Bully feinted for his opponent's 
tail, and, when the pond trout turned suddenly to 
guard his caudal extremity, he left his throat un- 



THE BULLY OF THE OSWEGATCHIE 247 

guarded for an instant — and it was all over. Once 
the Bully had set his teeth into the white throat he 
shook and raged and tore while the life-blood of his 
foe gushed out, and the denizens of the pond saw 
their supposedly invincible warrior die before their 
eyes. 

Nothing is known, certainly, of the Bully's life 
after this up to the day that he met his death. It 
is whispered that before leaving the pond he under- 
took to capture a white miller that came fluttering 
over the surface of the water just at dusk one night 
and found himself fast at the end of a line as in 
his boyhood. Some even assume to say that after 
vainly flinging himself into the air in the effort 
to shake the miller out of his mouth, he said good- 
bye to those who had been drawn about him by his 
struggles, and was about ready to give up hope 
when one last struggle took him over and under a 
root and he found himself free. They even go so 
far as to say that for many a day after that the 
miller stuck to the Bully's jaw, and that from it 
floated a fine, white thread. 

Another unsupported rumour has it that as he 
was going up stream one day in a narrow part of 
the stream he found a fine bunch of branches and 
leaves, and gladly pushed in among them when he 
heard a disturbance in the water back of him. No 
sooner had he entered this refuge than it began to 
rise out of the water, and he shortly found himself 
on shore and being handled by an animal that re- 



248 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

sembled the boy who had given him so much trouble 
years before, only much larger. Even then he 
would not give up without an effort, and, summon- 
ing all his strength, he gave a mighty squirm and 
escaped out of his captor's hands. He struck on 
the gravel, gave two or three tremendous leaps and 
was in water again, free. 

The Bully had grown to be the biggest trout in 
all that stretch of water, and his under jaw pro- 
truded as far and was quite as hooked as had been 
that of his vanquished enemy of the pond. An 
August morning found him well up the river in 
the dense woods where the water was cool and food 
was abundant. He had found a place where the 
water was some four feet deep, and a fallen tree- 
top made the finest kind of a hiding-place. Just 
above him was a clear space some two feet in 
diameter where now and then he could take a bug 
or a foolish miller. Lying at his ease, he thought 
with satisfaction of his numerous victories over 
other trout and of his good fortune in escaping 
those strange beings which prowled along the shore 
and threw enticing flies or worms into the stream. 
Just then — but, before we tell of this incident, we 
must bring in another story. That morning four 
men had broken camp some miles down the stream 
and started on a sixteen-mile tramp back into the 
woods, where they were to spend a month on the 
shore of a lake, fishing and hunting. The duffle 
was piled upon a rude sled drawn along the trail 



THE BULLY OF THE OSWEGATCHIE 249 

by a horse. When two of the party were ready 
to start ahead of the others, the guide, Fide Scott, 
said to one of them, the Preacher, " We'll follow 
the river for more than half the way, and if you 
fellows can catch some trout we'll have 'em for 
dinner." 

The Preacher already had hooks and a line in 
his pocket, and at once added a supply of fat angle 
worms from the common stock. They had walked 
for an hour or more when they came to a point on 
the river where a tree had fallen across the stream. 
Just below this natural bridge the water was deep 
and still, and a great mass of brush seemed to- 
promise an ideal hiding-place for trout. To make 
conditions exceptionally favourable there was a 
good-sized open place in the centre of the brush 
where one might drop his lure without the absolute 
certainty of getting snagged. The line came out 
of the Preacher's pocket in a hurry, the hook was 
tied on and two exceedingly well-developed worms 
were looped in such a way as to be as enticing as 
possible. A piece of alder, six feet or so in length, 
was pressed into service and everything was ready 
for the piscatorial adventure. But the pole was 
too short. Doing his best, the fisherman could not 
stand on the shore and drop his bait into that open 
spot in the brush. Only one thing remained, and 
that was to walk out on the log, from which the 
bark had dropped away, leaving it as slippery as the 
cellar door down which the Preacher had been wont 



250 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

to slide as a boy. Slowly and with exceeding cau- 
tion the adventurer made his way inch by inch 
along the log until he had reached a point from 
which he could drop his hook into that most attrac- 
tive opening in the brush. Balancing himself care- 
fully, he allowed that mass of wriggling worms to 
touch the surface of the water when — but now 
we'll go back to the Bully. 

When he saw that bunch of angleworms just 
above him he forgot the crooked worm which had 
pricked him in his childhood. He was sure that 
here was the most satisfying morsel that had ever 
come his way and rushed for it. He closed his 
jaws on only a part of the mass, and the rest dis- 
appeared, much to his disappointment. What he 
secured made him eager for more. It was dis- 
tinctly more palatable than anything he had tasted 
for many a moon. Just as he was longing for more 
of the same kind — behold! another bunch of wrig- 
gling, squirming worms appeared in almost the 
same spot. This time he did not propose to lose 
any of this meal so providentially provided, and 
he made a rush that enabled him not only to grab 
the entire mass, but to get it well back in his mouth. 
Then came that upward pull which he had felt in 
former experiences. He kicked and struggled and 
threshed, making the water boil about him. For 
a little his upward progress seemed to be stayed 
and he imagined that he would get free after all. 
Then his ascent began again and continued, despite 



THE BULLY OF THE OSWEGATCHIE 251 

all his mighty protests, until he felt himself en- 
wrapped and almost smothered by something, he 
knew not what. The Bully of the Upper Oswe- 
gatchie never knew what happened after that. He 
could not see the painfully anxious face of the 
Preacher endeavouring to balance himself on a 
peeled log and haul a big trout out of the brush by 
a sheer pull. He had no knowledge of the fervour 
with which the Preacher embraced him, or of the 
perilous journey to the shore along that treacherous 
pathway. He could not see the comrade of the 
Preacher when, excited by the splashing made by 
the Bully in his efforts to get off the hook, he 
jumped into the stream in his anxiety to be of help. 
When the rest of the party came up, there upon 
the grass lay a noble fish, and the proud Preacher 
was fairly sizzling with eagerness to tell all about 
the capture. There was nothing with which to 
weigh the Bully, but he measured a plump twenty- 
two inches in length and Fide Scott placed his 
weight at a good five pounds. That Preacher 
fairly split the buttons from his coat, swelling with 
pride when the guide exclaimed : " I've lived along 
the Oswegatchie for fifty years and he's the biggest 
trout I ever saw took out of the river." 



OLLA 
PODRIDA 





XIX 
OLLA PODRIDA 

THE backward look reveals many 
isolated bits of experience in the 
out-of-doors, not one of them im- 
portant enough to form the 
nucleus of a story of respectable 
size, and yet to each one crying 
out every time we glance in its direction : " Tell 
about me ! " If the reader finds nothing of interest 
in these odds and ends, he who writes may at least 
hope to quiet the importunities of these clamorous 
voices from out of the past. 




The Canasawacta Creek is usually a quiet, inof- 
fensive stream, making its way between the low- 
lying hills of central New York to its union with 
the Chenango River. The rain had been falling 
steadily all day and the creek was somewhat 
swollen when the families in the little hamlet at 

255 



256 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

South Plymouth retired for the night, but no one 
thought of danger. Shortly after midnight a little 
chap in one of those homes was awakened by his 
father, who lifted him out of his trundle bed and 
wrapped him in a blanket. The lad did not under- 
stand what had happened, even when he saw the 
water ankle-deep on the living-room floor, or when 
his father carried him through the swiftly rushing 
flood to the house of a neighbour on the height of 
land. It never occurred to him to be afraid so long 
as his father's arms were about him. 

In the sunshine of the next morning father and 
boy walked hand in hand down the street to the 
home which they had so hastily abandoned the 
night before. The creek had returned to its bed 
and was behaving much as usual. The boy won- 
dered not a little at the flood-wood left stranded 
against the picket fence, and was not slow to begin 
an investigation of the changes wrought in his 
playground by the visitor of the previous night. 

Over towards one corner of the yard was a de- 
pression in the ground with water still standing in 
it, and as the lad passed this pool he saw something 
moving. Although less than three years old, he 
had learned that a moving object in the water was 
very likely to be a fish. Young as he was, a great 
passion of pursuit seized him, and he grabbed with 
both hands at the object dimly seen through the 
roily water. Conviction became a certainty as he 
felt the fish squirm out of his grasp and received a 



OLLA PODRIDA 257 

splash of muddy water as the frightened victim 
struggled in the shallow pool. Clean clothes and a 
mother's injunctions were forgotten in the lust of 
the chase. In he waded and gathered that fish to 
his heart with both arms. When the father re- 
turned from investigating conditions in the house, 
there stood the lad, wet, muddy, but triumphant. 
What kind of a fish? The boy neither knew nor 
cared. It was a fish — and that was quite enough, 
especially when accompanied by the unquestioning 
conviction that it was the biggest fish in all the 
world. Since that boy has grown to manhood he 
has often said to himself as he looked upon an un- 
promising bit of water, " You never can tell. If 
fish are to be caught in your front dooryard, where 
may you not find them ? " 

Many trout come to view as we peer into the 
mists of the long ago, but, among them all, two are 
in a class by themselves. One of them came out of 
the Otselic River on a day when the boy had been 
berrying and had made a failure. Swinging his 
empty pail, he came to the river just where it had 
dug its way into the bank and formed a deep pool 
over which the alders hung. No normal boy goes 
abroad on any day, save Sunday, without a fish- 
hook and line in his pocket. Bringing forth these 
essentials to happiness, he found a pole, dug an 
angleworm from a muddy spot, and dropped his 
bait just where the water was blackest. Sunfish 



258 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

and perch and eels abounded in this river, but it 
was not famous for trout. In fact, this boy was 
not fishing for trout and so was all the more 
amazed when, after a sharp struggle, he landed a 
speckled monster on the grassy bank. At least he 
seemed a monster in size to the boy, and a conserva- 
tive adult estimate would place the fish at well over 
a pound. 

Now, failure to find berries appeared plainly 
providential, for here was the empty pail and the 
trout could be carried home alive. Under the porch 
at the back of the house was a half -hogshead, set 
into the ground, into which poured a little stream 
of pure, soft spring water brought from the near- 
by hillside through a lead pipe. Did a trout ever 
have a more ideal place of residence? Here he 
lived and thrived for many a day, fed with untiring 
regularity until — just here memory fails. Possibly 
he died of old age. 

The boy had grown somewhat older and had 
learned to make and use the " snare," when he went 
on a visit to friends in Cortland. Cortland is a 
thriving city now, and even then was a wide-awake 
and bustling village; but its chief attraction to the 
boy was its river — the Tioughnioga. No sooner 
had he said "How do you do?" to his relatives than 
he hurried to the river bridge to snare suckers. 
Now don't sniff, you owners of hand-made split- 
bamboo rods and scorners of all fishing except that 
for trout or bass! If you will just think back 



OLLA PODRIDA 259 

along the years until you catch sight of yourself 
as you once were, you will realize that the boy 
knows but one rule when fishing, and that is, " Get 
there ! " Methods do not matter to him so that 
he catches fish. Neither has he learned that dainty 
discrimination among the inhabitants of the water 
that comes with the years. We know boys, even in 
these days, who would rather stand on a log and 
catch unlimited numbers of sunfish, than to fish all 
day and take a half-dozen bass. 

He had borrowed a cane pole, and the line, with 
the slipping-noose of shining copper wire at the 
end, was soon dangling over the side of the bridge. 
Yes, the suckers were still there just about as they 
had been a month before when he saw them but 
lacked the paraphernalia for their capture. Of 
course, they were not good eating, for it was sum- 
mer-time and their flesh was soft. So, as often 
as one was derricked wriggling to the bridge, it was 
thrown back, and the process repeated. Naturally, 
he sought to catch the biggest ones, and when he 
discovered one of unusual size lying in the shadow 
of a rock he was all a-tingle with desire and 
anxiety. Cautiously he dropped the snare well 
above the fish and gently guided it down with the 
current until the copper wire was well back of the 
gills, and then jerked. Hurrah ! he had him ! 
Sucker? Not with that mouth and the beautiful 
carmine spots upon its sides. It is a trout, and a 
big one. The suckers had lost their charm, and 



260 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

a bee-line was made for the house of his friends 
that he might "have company in his rejoicing. 
Passing along the street, proudly dangling the big 
trout from an alder sprout, he was met by a man 
who stopped to admire the fish. 
" Where did you catch him ? " 
" Down at the bridge. I snared him." 
" Snared him? Don't you know that's illegal? " 
When the good-natured man, who had not for- 
gotten that he was once a boy, had explained that 
snaring a trout laid one liable to fine or imprison- 
ment, a scared, small boy sneaked by back-ways, 
and with the trout carefully hidden under his 
jacket, to the home of his friends. Heretofore 
game laws had not entered into his scheme of life. 
He was worried and unhappy; but nothing hap- 
pened. 

Every fisherman has his favourite lure for bass. 
Some put their trust in frogs, others swear by 
minnows. The crawfish, dobson, fly, spoon, worm, 
lamprey, pork-rind, and almost innumerable other 
supposed attractions, — each has its enthusiastic 
champions. But what will you do when all these 
fail? It came pretty near being that question 
which was faced by the boy who sought to cap- 
ture the big bass lying under the Erie Canal bridge. 
On sunny days one could stand on the bridge and 
see a score or more of bass resting near the bot- 
tom of the canal, but this particular fish, of alder- 



OLLA PODRIDA 261 

manic proportions, made all the others seem like 
infants. The boy could and did catch some of 
these bass, but the prize fish maintained a tanta- 
lizing indifference to all that was offered. Once 
or twice he had rubbed his nose against a fat min- 
now that was dangled directly in front of him, but 
usually he treated the most enticing morsel with 
utter disdain. The boy had exhausted his reper- 
toire of attractions, when, on a certain morning, 
he made his way to the bridge with the fixed pur- 
pose to ignore the big bass and devote himself 
to more responsive members of that family. As 
he trudged along the road he noticed an apple- 
peeling that had been cast away by some passer-by. 
A part of it was brilliant red. An idea popped 
into the lad's mind, only to be turned out of doors 
as absurd. But it would not stay outside. Again 
and again it returned asking hospitality, but the 
boy was firm and continued on his way. Once 
more, as he fished, that preposterous idea thrust 
itself upon him, and finally he retraced his steps 
and picked up the apple-peeling. Going back to 
the bridge, he fastened a piece of the red peeling 
to his hook, red side down, stood well out of sight 
of the fish, and began wiggling his pole in such 
a way that the brilliant peeling was compelled to 
dance a jig on the surface of the water. Only a 
moment of suspense, and then came a strike that 
almost carried him off his feet. Was it the big 
one? The pole bent until it threatened to snap 



262 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

in two. Pushing it rapidly backwards through his 
hands, he grasped the line and proceeded to haul 
in hand over hand. Of course a number of things 
might happen, any one of which would be a meas- 
ureless calamity. But the line did not part, the 
hook did not tear out, the heavens did not fall, 
and when at last a noble bass was safely landed on 
the bridge the boy let out a yell that might have 
been heard in Syracuse. Five pounds, four ounces, 
he weighed, and his relatives under the canal 
bridge knew him no more for ever. 

The bass has countless vagaries, and one never 
knows what he will do under given circumstances. 
As a father and son were fishing for small-mouth 
on the St. Lawrence, the senior hooked a fish which 
broke the snood and went free. Now there is a 
persistent tradition that, when a bass has been 
pricked by the hook, he does not bite again until 
the passing of twenty-four hours or such a matter 
has served to wipe the experience from his mem- 
ory. In less than an hour the boy caught a two- 
pounder having in its jaws the identical snood 
which the father had lost. The tradition was dis- 
credited, unless we assume that the one caught had 
envied the mouth ornament worn by the one 
hooked earlier in the day, and, stealing it, had fixed 
it in his own jaw. 

Bass fishing on the Bay of Quinte is famous 
for its excellence. Not only is there abundance 



OLLA PODRIDA 263 

of fish, but they are exceptionally gamey. Their 
vigour and eagerness to be caught is illustrated 
by the member of this tribe that jumped into our 
boat. Every one has heard of the Florida mullet 
that, attracted by the light in a boat at night, came 
jumping over the sides in such numbers that they 
sank the boat and imperilled the lives of those on 
board. But a bass is no such fool fish as a mullet. 
If they do any jumping it is usually away from 
the boat, not towards it. The bass under consid- 
eration was hooked in some twenty feet of water, 
and put up a vigorous fight. The fisherman was 
compelled to give out line in considerable quanti- 
ties, but when the fish ran under the boat it was 
evidently time to " snub " him. No sooner was 
this done than he gave a leap and landed in the 
boat from the opposite side. 

As a rule, ladies are not enthusiastic devotees of 
the " gentle art." One, however, whom we knew 
somewhat well, became, under the tutelage of her 
husband, more than a little expert in fishing for 
bass. She had grown familiar with all their ordi- 
nary tricks and knew how to drop the point of 
the rod to prevent an impending leap, and just 
when to give out line and when to reel in. Fish- 
ing one day on Round Lake, she hooked a bass and 
proceeded to play it according to the most ap- 
proved rules. She met every rush and antici- 
pated every jump. Then the line became limp and 



264 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

she said to her husband, " He's off." Just then 
the fish broke water less than two feet away from 
the boat, flung himself into the air, shook the hook 
free from his jaws, and was gone. Here was one 
trick with which the fisherwoman was not familiar. 
Small wonder that she asked pathetically, " Why 
did he do it?" 

One makes strange catches sometimes. We re- 
call a gentleman who, on his initial experience in 
trout fishing, was discovered sitting on a log by 
the stream, examining a strange-looking fish which 
furnished the solitary evidence of his piscatorial 
skill. " Is that a trout? " he asked of his friend. 
"Hardly," was the reply. "What is it, then?" 
That question remains unanswered. It was evi- 
dently a bottom fish of some kind, and resembled 
a " hammer-head," but with some marked dif- 
ferences. 

Every one familiar with sea-fishing knows what 
freaks in form and colouring are brought up oc- 
casionally when one is fishing for cod or scup or 
flounders. It remained for Mt. Desert to take a 
safe lead of all competitors in furnishing peculiar 
returns to the fisherman's advances. We were 
fishing off the pier at one of the famous summer 
resorts of this famous island. The fish were not 
responsive and it was decided to quit. When the 
fisherman attempted to pull in his line he found 
that his hook was snagged. Under a strong but 



OLLA PODRIDA 265 

steady pull the line began to come in with some- 
thing heavy dragging at the end. As it made no 
struggle it could hardly be a fish, and sunken logs 
and sticks are not frequent in tide-water. Slowly 
the catch was drawn in until the wondering fish- 
erman could see a jug, brown but not very little, 
into the handle of which his hook had caught. 
The wonder was that an empty, corked jug should 
sink. When it was discovered that a strong cord 
anchored the jug to one of the timbers of the pier, 
a suspicion was created that this jug had been 
caught previously. A somewhat hasty and incom- 
plete examination established relationship between 
the jug and the Maine prohibition law, but not 
between the jug and its owner. Can any other 
fisherman boast of catching the " spirits of the 
vasty deep " ? 

Perhaps the Deacon had an experience as ex- 
citing, if not as satisfactory, as that ever allotted to 
any fisherman. He and his son and the Preacher 
were fishing on Big St. Germain. The hotel was 
provided with a porch which ran along the en- 
tire front. As the party came in from an after- 
noon with the pike, the rods were placed against 
this porch, butts on the ground and tips projecting 
above the porch roof. The Preacher was the first 
to finish his supper, and as he came out the front 
door a peculiar combination of sounds was heard. 
Spitting, snarling, scratching were mingled with 
the clicking of a reel. It was the Deacon's reel 



266 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

that seemed to be working alone and unaided, and 
the mystery was solved only when it was discov- 
ered that a cat had climbed upon the porch roof, 
swallowed the minnow that the Deacon had failed 
to remove from the hook, and was now making 
frantic efforts to escape. When the Deacon was 
informed of what was certainly nothing short of a 
cat-astrophe, he hastened to the rescue. Then and 
there was furnished such an exhibition of artistic 
and skilful handling of a rod as few have been 
permitted to witness. If a ten-pound trout instead 
of a cat had been at the end of the line, the Deacon 
could not have done better. Did the cat run up 
the side of the building, the Deacon paid out line. 
Did it run down again, he reeled in. His poise 
and calm were admirable. Once, indeed, when the 
youngster giggled, the Deacon's voice was heard 
remarking that he did not see anything to laugh 
at. This furnished an atom too much for 
the Preacher's self-control, and he hurried into a 
boat and rowed hastily out to the middle of the 
lake where he could give vent to the emotions 
which rent and tore him. An hour later, when 
the Preacher returned, all was peaceful. Despite 
the Deacon's skill — possibly because of it — the 
cat had gotten off. 

Did you ever see a muskallonge walk over the 
water on its tail ? It is not claimed that this is its 
favourite method of taking a stroll, but only that 



OLLA PODRIDA 267 

under certain exceptional circumstances it may be 
induced to disport itself in this manner. W. G. 
had always felt like fishing, but circumstances had 
not permitted much indulgence of this inherent de- 
sire. When he had succeeded in making arrange- 
ments for a trip to Pike Lake and found himself 
on the twenty-five-mile drive from the railway 
station to the lake, he was happy. To be sure, 
the city-dweller was not quite prepared for the 
quiet of the woods, and when night came he was 
heard to aver that it was so still it made him nerv- 
ous. However, on the whole, he found the experi- 
ence quite to his liking, and entered with enthusi- 
asm upon pursuit of the valorous muskallonge. It 
was the first one he struck which furnished the 
remarkable phenomenon of walking upon the wa- 
ter. He was trolling with a steel rod and plenty 
of line out, when a careless muskie grabbed the 
hook. The figure which a moment before had 
been relaxed and seemingly inert, became a mass 
of steel springs. Over that placid face came a 
look of such fierceness as fairly to frighten his 
boat-mates. He began to reel, but that did not at 
all satisfy his desire for speed. Casting the rod 
aside, grabbing the line and standing up in the 
boat, he jerked that muskallonge in, seemingly a 
rod at a jerk. To the onlookers the fish seemed 
to touch only the high places on the water, and 
then only with his tail. Not one muskie out of 
a thousand has a mouth tough enough to stand 



268 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

such treatment, but this was an exceptional fish. 
He came walking into the boat as if he had been 
accustomed to such violent exercise from child- 
hood. We did not need to club him; he had died 
of surprise. 

It was a muskie that furnished us with an in- 
troduction to those tricky scales which some unre- 
generate fishermen are said to use. We had jour- 
neyed to the Ottonaby Lakes, north of Port Hope, 
in search of bass and muskallonge. The senior 
member of the party had never caught a speci- 
men of the latter, and was up at sunrise every 
morning to be rowed up and down until breakfast- 
time in pursuit of this gallant fish. When the 
Preacher came down to breakfast one morning 
there was the old gentleman, the centre of an 
admiring group gathered about a muskallonge. 
There could be no doubt as to its genuineness, but 
when the Senior announced that it weighed thir- 
teen pounds, the Preacher was stunned. He 
thought of certain fish of which he had heard 
whose great weight was found to be due to some 
pounds of shot that had been surreptitiously poured 
down their gullets. One look at the honest face of 
the Senior dispelled all such suspicions. 

" Who weighed him? " 

" I did," answered the landlord. " He goes a 
little over thirteen pounds." After breakfast the 



OLLA PODRIDA 269 

troubled Preacher went behind the bar in search 
of those scales, and was caught in the act by the 
landlord. 

"What do you want?" questioned the pro- 
prietor. 

" I want to weigh that fish." 

In a low voice that could not reach the Senior 
in the adjoining dining-room, the landlord said : 
" Never mind. I'll tell you. That fish weighs just 
five pounds." 

And that unsuspicious old man went back home 
and bragged of his thirteen-pound muskie, while 
the Preacher said never a word. What's the use 
of spoiling a good story? 

Some people seem to be naturally skeptical about 
fish stories. They should not be, for tales of pis- 
catorial adventure are peculiar in that, no matter 
how big they are made, they can never equal the 
facts. The Preacher had just come to his new 
parish, and after a month or so of work there had 
taken a trip to the Nepigon. He could do nothing 
less, on his return, than tell stories of big trout, for 
there were no others to tell about. At the dinner 
table in one of the homes of his parish he had been 
relating some of his fishing adventures on the fa- 
mous stream, of an eight-pound trout taken at Vic- 
toria Pool and the numbers that went four and 
five pounds each, when the hostess, a vivacious and 
witty woman, threw up her hands -and jocularly 



270 DAYS IN THE OPEN 

exclaimed : " For Heaven's sake ! What sort of a 
pastor have we drawn?" 

It was a year or two later that the Preacher, 
when spending a few days on Tomahawk Lake, 
caught a muskie that went a little over seventeen 
pounds. Recalling the skepticism of his parish- 
ioner, he had the fish packed in a box where it 
could lie out at full length, surrounded it with 
moss and ice, and expressed it to the doubter. 
When he reached home again the skeptic had been 
soundly converted from the error of her ways. On 
their first meeting after the reception of the mus- 
kie, she said: "Pastor, after this you may tell 
any fish-lie you like and I will swear to it." 



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